In The Shadows Of The Tudor Court
by Artemis Samhain
Summary: In the world beyond the glitz and glamour of the Tudor Court they met, became close and managed to fall in love. Sometimes, if love is true and patient, it can defy all odds. Sometimes it takes years to get a happy ending.
1. Author's Note and Disclaimer

Disclaimer:

Obviously The Tudors are not mine... And neither is History. If they were the show would revolve around a dashing diplomat, there would be TomKat like there never was before, Henry would be such a secondary character he wouldn't even figure in the opening credits, certain male cast members would find themselves in contrived plots to make sure they appear shirtless 99% of the time (I take suggestions!) and the rest of the "argument" would serve as an excuse for Chapuys and Mary to get locked in rooms of increasingly smaller size, with increasingly less amount of clothes. And we would all love it. But, since it's not like that, then that means I do not own it. Not even one bit.

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Warning:

Ok, so to make this all clear I'm laying it on the table from the get-go: This fanfic takes liberties with history, profound liberties. I do this not cause I like to fuck around with history (I am a history major after all) but because either the show did it first and I'm not about to change it (they DO take unnecessary liberties with history that sometimes have no apparent purpose, but I am sticking to them) or because I consider it essential in the creation of a situation where Mary/Chapuys could actually happen, while respecting Mary's queenly destiny... sort of. It took a lot of thinking, and sometimes it might take a leap of faith, but I tried to write the pairing in a possible, believable scenario, so all changes, which may seem unnecessary at first, actually make sense. If you have questions regarding the purpose behind any of these changes, PM me. I'll be happy to explain why I decided to alter this or that.

The main change is Chapuys's age... I have made him ten years younger. It's not because I wished him to be closer to Mary in age (I had no problems with their big age difference) but because if he stayed his real age by the end of the fic (it's going to encompass a lot of years, way beyond the series finale) he'd be too old for the Era, for his job and so on. It just wasn't plausible, so I had to change it, though I regretted it. So instead of being 27 years older than Mary he is 17, which is still a big difference, especially during Tudor times.

The only change that is a bit unnecessary is that I introduce a Spanish play, The Dog in the Manger (El Perro del Hortelano, written by Lope de Vega), that was actually written in 1618. The play enriches a part of this fic in such a way that I felt the liberty was justified. I am looking for an English translation of the play (I could not do it justice), to put along with the original Spanish text so most of you who do not know Spanish can understand. If anyone owns a copy, I may have a favour to ask of you! If someone knows where to find a copy to download, please let me know.

If you do not agree with this altering of the historical facts, then don't read or complain, because you were warned.

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Dedication: To SSLE (I am posting this because of that awesome chapter of Take this Waltz, Dani), Vain-Life Poetess and CourtsofLove, the wonderful girls who preceded me in the Chary business. Thank you for paving the way, ladies.

Onwards with the fic!

And sorry for posting this as a first chapter, I am aware most of you won't read this but I felt the warning was needed.


	2. The Princess in the Tower

Ambassador Chapuys reined his horse with ease, taking a moment to gaze upon Hatfield House and gather his thoughts. His many informants in Court had not been able to tell him of the conditions in which the daughter of his master's aunt, the sainted Katherine of Aragon, lived. He did not know if she was well-treated, if she was given the respect her blood and her position demanded and, above all, if she was of good health. He was aware of the princess's frail disposition and her propensity to respiratory afflictions, a cause of great misery for her already-miserable mother, whose conscience was always at war with her motherly instincts (a fact His Majesty seemed more eager to exploit than to repay with mercy). He was prepared to lie through his teeth the next time he saw the queen, but he wished fervently that he would not need to considerably stray from the truth.

He spurred his horse once more and soon found himself inside the walls of the impressive English Manor, soaking in the indoor warmth. Strangely enough there was no one to receive him (he had asked for the Lady Bryan but had been informed she was currently otherwise engaged and had given strict orders not to be disturbed), so he took it upon himself to go hunting for a maid or a Lady-In-Waiting to point him out on the right direction to the Lady Mary. After all, he had been given permission to call upon her, or else he would not have gained admittance.

For the Household of a "princess" of England Hatfield House was quite deserted. Every once in a while he saw out of the corner of his eye the back of a maid's dress as she scurried away, clearly avoiding him. Well, he had been rather prepared to be persona non grata in the home of the harlot's daughter.

"Hello!" his deep, accented voice bounced off the walls as he walked along the hallways, quickly growing impatient but refusing to show it "Is anyone there?"

His long, fur-lined coat billowed behind him as he walked briskly from room to room, taking the time to absorb everything, never knowing what minor detail could turn out to be invaluable. Finally, when he had been close to losing his temper, he spotted, by way of an open door in the hallway, a young woman, dressed in a plain black dress, carrying some linens. He figured her for a maid, which made what happened next make little sense. Glancing around and finding herself quite alone the girl set the load in her arms down by a nearby table and walked, hesitatingly, to the virginal located in the far left corner, sat gingerly down and stroked the keys with practiced movements. Soon enough a beautiful melody drifted through the air, the instrument accompanied by a quiet humming. Ambassador Chapuys, who had had every intention of cornering this maid to finally get to the Lady Mary but moments ago, found himself reluctant to interrupt the impromptu concert. He had never heard anyone play the instrument so well.

Suddenly the girl stiffened, stood up immediately and turned towards the door, her posture collected but her eyes wide.

"Who's there?"

Chapuys, feigning commiseration at being found spying, promptly stepped into the room, determined once and for all to do what he was there to do.

"I am sorry for startling you, my lady" he apologized, praying that he had been right to deduce from her ornate gold cross, discreet diadem and simple earrings that she was a sort of Lady-in-waiting of low status and not a maid as he had first thought. She was, up close and personal, paler than what was healthy and thinner that what he was used to, too. Her eyes, however, were the most beautiful shade of blue-grey he had ever seen and her movements were effortlessly elegant, especially for a young lady of no more than eighteen.

"It is quite alright" she replied, composed yet somewhat wary "Where you looking for someone in particular?" the hidden question behind her polite enquiry clearly was 'What are you doing here?'

Before he could reply in the affirmative and finally get on with his business a door to the side opened and a lady with blond hair in a cream gown entered, her eyes settling on the girl in the black dress with annoyance.

"At last I found you" she said in a clipped voice, clearly not noticing the presence of the Imperial Envoy, shrouded somewhat in the shadows "I have told you that you must not run off somewhere when I specifically tell you I have need of you"

The young woman arched her eyebrows, her expression quite chilly, but she nodded her head a fraction of an inch in a shallow gesture of apology, her eyes darting from the lady back to the stranger. He discovered, with surprise, that, other than some pride and a slight dislike for the woman, he could not read the expression on her face like he read countless others at court. His interest in the girl rose a bit more than he would have liked, so he decided to get on with his business, especially since the blond woman finally seemed to notice him. She sent a look to the girl in black, who took the armful of linens she had set down some time ago and started toward the door the woman in the cream dress had entered from.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a smile, her voice a lot softer than it had been before, and her disposition quite a lot improved. The Ambassador attributed it to his finely-tailored clothes and sparse yet expensive jewellery. He had seen how such things could turn a woman's head.

"I believe so, yes. I am Eustace Chapuys, representative of the Emperor Charles V in England and I have come to speak with the Lady Mary Tudor" he spoke with nonchalance, but inside he bristled at being forced to acknowledge the Princess of Wales by such a lowly title "I had been told the Lady Bryan would be here to receive me and take me to her, but apparently she's too busy"

The woman in front of him frowned, her amiability being replaced by confusion in an instant.

"But… Were you not just talking to her?"

It took a second or so for what she said to sink in, and when it finally did the Imperial Ambassador stiffened and drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening slightly. The girl in the simply black dress was not the lowly Lady he had thought, but the cousin of his master, the Holy Roman Emperor, and he had treated her little better than a maid.

"I… I was not aware of who she was" he replied with some difficulty, trying desperately to keep his shame and bewilderment from seeping into his voice. He vaguely registered the lady informing him he would fetch the Lady Mary and then leaving the room. He cursed himself mentally for not being more observant, more careful. He should have known her by the cross, by her clear blue eyes, so like her mother's, by the dignity with which she carried herself.

He dispelled all thoughts from his head when he realized the blond woman had returned with the Princess in tow. She looked more interested in him than before, and far more trusting.

"Lady Ashley, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell the Lady Bryan that the Imperial Ambassador is here, and that I will be taking a walk with him in the gardens, if he will oblige me" the princess said softly, smiling when the lady did not fight her but merely exited the room in search of the ever-elusive Lady Bryan. Chapuys took the opportunity to sink to his knees in a humble yet dignified manner.

"Your Highness, do excuse my rudeness, I was not aware of who you were"

Tentatively she gave him her hand to kiss. It was soft and cold, and felt unsure. The Envoy surmised she had not had anyone greet her in such a formal manner before.

"I have not heard someone call me that in a long time" her voice was almost a whisper, soothing even if it reflected some of the young lady's weariness "As much as I appreciate your Excellency's gesture, I trust you will not address me in such a manner again. It would only cause you trouble"

He rose, nodding his head to acknowledge her point, and let her guide him through the labyrinth of halls and doors to the grounds. He worried for her health, even after she donned a fur-lined cloak and gloves, but understood the wisdom of speaking outside Hatfield House. Her pace was brisk, almost eager, and the reason for such hurry manifested itself as soon as they reached a rather secluded spot and sat down on a stone bench. She turned towards him without allowing him to even utter a word.

"As I understand it you are granted permission to visit my mother" her gaze turned pleading and her voice broke "Tell me, how is she?"

The resemblance to her mother at that moment was uncanny. There was the same love in her eyes as the Ambassador had seen many times before in the gaze of the proud Infanta of Aragon, the same worry and trepidation.

"She is as well as can be expected" Ambassador Chapuys thought about telling her a softened version of the truth, but knew it would do her no good in the long run. She would have to grow used to the ugliness of the world "She stays mostly in bed these days, and has trouble even attending mass. Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher have been able to keep her company and raise her spirits from time to time, but I am afraid that they have also fallen prey to the madness that plagues your father, the King, and their future has become uncertain. Might I enquire how you are faring, my lady?"

She straightened her back and drew a sharp breath, trying to compose herself.

"It is very kind of you to ask, Excellency" she said slowly, her gaze strong and unwavering "I am well enough, as you can see. You must tell my mother…" she paused and the Ambassador feared she would make him promise to tell her mother of her hardships, which he was sure were many. He knew he would not be able to keep such a promise "You must tell her that I am much stronger than the last time she saw me. I hardly ever get sick anymore, the country air has done wonders for my lungs and complexion"

Blatant lies, all of them, as her paleness, the dark bruises under her eyes and the frailty of her body showed to whoever gazed at her. But her eyes made it clear that he was to tell all of this to his mother as if it was an undisputed truth. He nodded, an understanding forming between them both.

"You must also tell her that I am well treated and cared for, and that I have not forgotten her words and practice my music every chance I get" there was some humour in her voice as she said that, and the Ambassador did not know if it was because she had caught him spying on her as she played or because it was obvious she had done it without permission "Say I have no cause to complain. That all my concerns are for herself, and for her own health. That I pray for her to be strong in body and mind, and that I am most proud to be called her daughter"

Eustace Chapuys smiled, respect for the young princess growing within him. He presented her with a sealed envelope she took eagerly from his hands, tucking it immediately into an inner pocket of her cloak with a grateful smile, knowing by the way her name was scrawled across the back that it was a missive from her mother. He gently tried to secure more information about her daily life under the Lady Bryan, but her answers were short and evasive. He understood she did not trust him enough to tell him the truth about her life as a servant to her bastard half-sister, so he let the matter drop, but not without stressing that, should she ever need anything, she should not hesitate to ask it of him. The princess titled her head to the side, as if considering him, before answering.

"Really, anything? I do not want to become a burden. I understand that you must be very busy attending to my mother's matter and the interests of my cousin Charles"

Feeling good about being of use at all Chapuys once again insisted she could ask him for anything within his power.

"Well" she voiced her request hesitatingly, afraid to sound foolish "If it would not impose on you much I would like some books, whenever and if ever you get the chance to stop by Hatfield again"

"Books?" Eustace asked, his tone belying his surprise. He had not been expecting her to ask for that.

"Yes. There are hardly any books here, and I was not allowed to bring mine when I came to stay. I have many moments of solitude that I wish to put to use brushing up on what my tutors so diligently taught me. Especially the classics, like Polybius, Plato, Saint Thomas Aquinas and Saint Augustine. It seems to me that I have not read in ages and it would make time here pass so much faster"

Feeling it was a petition he could accommodate discreetly, Chapuys promised to see what he could bring her next time he visited. Finally they were interrupted by the Lady Governess, who came both to apologize for her absence and to ensure the Ambassador did not overstay his welcome. Both the Lady Mary and the diplomat got the message loud and clear, and soon enough he was bidding both women a good day and riding back to London.

He had gone to Hatfield House mostly to allay Queen Katherine's fears with regards to her daughter and deliver a secret letter entrusted to him, and to make sure people knew that the Emperor's concern for his most beloved aunt extended to his dear little cousin, but he had enjoyed it more than he had thought he would. He had imagined the Princess to be a little girl and not the stoic young woman he had encountered. Maybe, he ruminated as the cold winter air crept underneath his coat, the future journeys to Hatfield House would not be as unpleasant or as tedious as he had dreaded at first.

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AN: I always wondered how these two met, so I thought to begin with it, and have some fun. I am going to be updating once a week (**hopefully** I'll stick with the schedule), so see you next saturday!


	3. In Sickness and in Health

AN: Ok, so far so good with the updates. I hope you like this chapter, and take into account that, since I am posting insights into the characters' relationships, they have met a number of times between the first chapter and this one. Also, I have explained to most reviewers this, but I'll clarify it here to: the change in Chapuy's age is strictly a numerical alteration made for the sole purpose of people eventually not asking if Chapuys was getting too old for some of the action (again, this fic will encompass a lot of years), and because, if I had stuck with the historical facts, he would have been dead before it finished, and I will NOT kill Chapuys. I don't have it in me. So for all intents an purposes the Ambassador is the same man you see in the show (he never looks his age in the show anyway, he could easily be seen as ten years younger), the change I proposed was just so no one started to wonder Chapuy's age and if he was getting too old for his post or whatever. Sorry for not making that clear!

Enjoy!

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The first time he saw her truly ill he would never forget. He had heard stories, of course, of the princess's sudden and hard-hitting sicknesses. When she had been born the physicians had been all in agreement that she would not live past the night, then the week, then the season, then the year, then her infancy. They had spent her childhood predicting her death and each time she fell ill the Queen had been terrified that they would be proven right. In spite of that she had rebelled against their expert opinion, entrusting her daughter to God and to her care, nursing her back to health more times than she should have been able to. By the time Mary had turned nine it seemed like the worst was over, and that God would not take this child from her side like he had done with all her brothers and sisters. Still, the Princess's health left a lot to be desired, and every now and then cause for concern would arise.

He had been quite surprised, when he developed the habit of visiting Hatfield as often as the King would allow (it was easier for the Ambassador to get permission to visit the Princess than her mother, especially since Bishop Fisher and Thomas More also requested leave to visit Katherine of Aragon quite often), to see the Lady Mary, as they called her, often in good health. She was always pale and always with bags under her eyes, but she was also always in high spirits, full of questions about her mother, about her father, though she was very hesitant to enquire about him, and, surprisingly, about him. She was curious about who he was, where he had come from, and how his childhood had been. He understood she wished, for a little while in his presence, to escape the dreary world of Hatfield House, full of disrespect, scorn, deceit and hatred towards her and her mother.

He indulged her often, weaving intricate stories of childhood mischief or amusing anecdotes of his times as a student at Turin and the people he had met there, some of which were amongst the sharpest minds of the Era. He omitted, at first, some of the less flattering recollections (mostly the times he had indulged in drunken brawls, a university tradition as contrary to his character as unavoidable in Turin), but soon enough he found himself sharing those too with her.

There was something very approachable about the Lady Mary, and it had nothing to do with the plain clothes she wore or the simple jewellery she adorned herself with. It was something in the way she had quickly dismissed his formality towards her, in how she always asked about his health and affairs, including asking after his servant Rafael, who she knew from many a funny story he had told about his mishaps as a servant of a prominent diplomat, and after his trusted secretary, Flemming. It was at the same time easy to forget her rank and hard, for there was something in the way she carried herself, in the way she walked and talked, that seemed to make the royal blood coursing through her veins very apparent.

All those things considered, sometimes being at Hatfield House felt more like a vacation from court than a duty to his master, even if he had to endure the unpleasantness of Lady Bryan, who seemed determined to silently show how she objected each of his visits while outwardly being quite pleasant, and even if the ride back and forth did nothing for his fledging gout. Still, his master needed him more at court or at whatever old, drafty castle his Majesty saw fit to move his true Queen and wife to in her increasingly weak state. Chapuys would not be surprised if he were to find out that Henry VIII was trying to drive the Queen to an early grave and not merely looking to punish her for her constant disobedience.

It was not surprising, therefore, that news from Hatfield reached him later than he would have liked. He was attending Court, as usual, standing silently next to the Duke of Suffolk, both gazing disdainfully at Thomas and George Boleyn as they pranced around the room behaving like they were royalty and not merely related to a royal by marriage. A tap on his shoulder made him turn around, surprised when he encountered the ever-so-timid Rafael, looking quite out of place and frantically holding a letter out to him.

"This has come to the embassy, Excellency" he said in rushed Spanish, his nervousness seeming to make him reverse to his mother tongue, forsaking the English his master often made him speak at Court "The man who brought it said it was urgent and that I was to bring it to you at once"

Eustace took the letter without another word, breaking the wax seal and reading the few lines with increasing concern. By the time he was finished he looked pale and bewildered, to the extent that the Duke felt compelled to enquire what was wrong. The Ambassador looked up to him, for his Grace was rather tall, but found he could not utter a word, nodding his head instead and dashing swiftly out of the room, almost unnoticed. He sent Rafael to prepare everything for a rushed visit to the Emperor's aunt.

"But... why, master? What has happened?" Rafael blurted out, forgetting his place for a moment in his state of frenzy. Eustace Chapuys paused, looking into his servant's eyes and knowing he needed to tell someone and Rafael and Fleming were probably the two most trustworthy people at Court.

"The Lady Mary seems to have fallen ill even to the concern of the physicians who have examined her. I am afraid... That is, the doctors strongly suspect..." the Ambassador, for once at a loss of words, struggled for something to convey his meaning "They think she will not make it"

The servant boy, eyes wide, crossed himself and muttered a short prayer in Spanish before promising to arrange for everything as quickly as possible.

"Please, dear God, I do not want to be the one to tell Queen Katherine that her only child has died" Eustace muttered under his breath "Don't make me do it"

The events after his departure from Court seemed like a distant, unpleasant dream as Ambassador Chapuys rode to Hatfield House. The audience with the Queen had been painful and he wanted nothing more than to forget it. The subsequent audience with the King, however, had managed to top it. His mission of mercy had felt more like a journey through Hell as he was subjected to the worst of Henry's paranoia, pettiness and cruelty. He had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood in an effort to prevent all his thoughts on his Majesty's behaviour from spilling out and had instead all but storm out of the castle.

"What else is there to do, sir?" Fleming's question had surprised him pacing his quarters, trying to see if there was anything else to do. Linacre was on his way to the Princess, and he had much confidence in a man of such learning as him. The Queen had been denied the opportunity to sit by her daughter, and More, Fisher and Gardiner – the de facto leaders of what was being known as the catholic faction at Court- had all been made aware of the situation. Was there anything else for him to do?

"Go to Hatfield House, of course. The Lady Mary's mother cannot be with her, but she will not be made to think she is alone. I will convey to her personally all of her mother's wishes and prayers for her health and happiness"

It had taken him less than an hour to depart, and now the top of Hatfield House was visible, blending in against the dark grey clouds of the upcoming storm. The rain caught up with him before he made it to the manor, but he barely felt it at all, so concentrated he was on his destination, on his new mission.

He was greeted with cold civility in Hatfield House, as usual, the Lady Bryan apparently torn between worry for the one who had been once her charge and the current princess she looked after. He brushed past her trying to keep the contempt he felt for her from showing in his face and, guided by a rather nervous-looking maid, reached the princess's room. The door was ajar, no doubt because Dr. Linacre was inside. Trying to make as little noise as possible he pushed the door open, noticing at once the scorching heat inside the room thanks to a roaring fire and the fact that the room was much too small for such a source of heat.

Illuminated by the many candles that had been placed no doubt for the benefit of Linacre, who was trying to gauge Mary's complexion, the room confirmed most of the Ambassador's fears with respect to the treatment of Queen Katherine's beloved daughter. Sparsely furnished, undecorated save for a simple cross that hung from one of the walls (and that the envoy was almost sure had been placed by the princess herself), the room was unfit for Tomás, the lowest of his servants who attended him on his quarters at Whitehall. The small window, he imagined, provided little light during the day and most of the space was occupied by three large trunks which must have contained all of the Lady Mary's possessions. The wealth of a princess of England, of a granddaughter of the Catholic Monarchs, reduced to three old trunks. It sickened him, but not more than the sight of the princess herself, atop a simple, small bed, struggling for breath. She was soaking wet, perspiration making tendrils of her hair stick to the sides of her face, her nightgown sticking to her skin in an uncomfortable way, yet she had the covers pulled over her body for the sake of modesty. She seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, struggling to stay awake and coherent. She was also muttering something and Eustace approached the bed to be able to hear better.

"Mamá" the princess's voice was hoarse, raspy, yet it repeated over and over "¿Dónde está mi mamá? Por favor... la necesito" (1)

The Ambassador prided himself on being a creature of reason and of little emotion. He was superb at his job exactly for such a reason, for his ability to remain cool-headed when other men would have lost their temper or given in to their emotions. But he was not heartless and, though he took great pains to hide it, the princess's pleas for her mother, in the language the two women often shared according to what he had been told, nearly undid him.

"Hush, my Lady, you must not tire yourself so" Linacre's voice was soft and tender, and one of his hands pressed a wet cloth to her forehead in an attempt to bring her some comfort while the other was holding one of the girl's hands "Do not speak if you can help it. You're much too weak"

Chapuys was surprised by the familiarity of the physician's words and gestures. He knew he had tended to the Lady Mary before, but he had not expected such concern.

"She was my pupil once, you know" the doctor said aloud, obviously talking to him even though his eyes never left the princess's face "I taught her Italian. She has a great facility for languages, mostly due to having been taught Latin, the mother of all modern tongues, at such a young age. That is why her Spanish is flawless, too"

Ambassador Chapuys remained silent, letting the older man unburden himself. It was clear that guilt weighted heavily in Linacre's shoulders, maybe because he felt he should have done more for the princess, maybe because he had let the girl's separation from her father keep him from looking after her health as he had done since she had been born. He wondered if Linacre knew who was behind him or merely thought to unburden himself on a maid or some other servant of the house.

"I had never heard her speak it before today, I'm sad to say" he replied, more to identify himself than anything else "Indeed, there is barely a hint of her true accent, maybe a slight rolling of the rs"

He was stalling for time, he suddenly realized, because he was afraid to ask the physician what his diagnose was. Thankfully the good doctor saved him the trouble.

"I am sorry to say it does not look good for her. She's too weak to bleed and her body has been taken over by a vicious fever. If it does not break by dawn, I am afraid a priest should be summoned to impart the last rites, as they may be necessary"

The Imperial Envoy sucked in a sharp breath, eyes closing briefly. His first thoughts should have been of what the princess's death would mean to Queen Katherine and his master, the Emperor, but what he thought of instead was of how unbearable his time in England would be without his little visits to Hatfield House, without someone interested in his life, someone with which to share his books and his dry insights into people and matters. Without a friend.

He shook his head. How ridiculous of him to be thinking what he was at such a time. Dr. Linacre, thankfully, did not seem to require any sort of response to what he had just disclosed and merely asked if he could remain in the room while he informed the Lady Bryan of his findings, and the Ambassador nodded absently. He knelt by the bed, in place of the old doctor, but dared not touch the Lady Mary, for fear of causing her discomfort or seeming too forward.

"Who's there?" the raspy voice coming from the girl in the bed held little semblance to the soothing tones he had come to associate the princess with "I can't... I mean... I can't see... well"

The Ambassador swallowed the lump in his throat and did not try to speak till he felt sure his voice would not betray him. He needed to exude confidence.

"It is me, My Lady, Ambassador Chapuys" he said gently "I have come from Court, where I informed His Majesty of your condition. He seemed very concerned, and that is why he assigned Dr. Linacre, his most trusted physician as you know, to your care"

His words felt empty, hollow, but he infused as much belief as possible. He was rewarded by a tired but clear smile from the princess, even if her eyes told him she knew he was trying to paint her a pretty picture.

"Will my... That is, has my father allowed...?"

A coughing fit halted the girl's question quite effectively, forcing her to turn away from the Ambassador and cover her mouth with a handkerchief. The sound itself was a bad omen, and the force of the fit left Mary weaker than before. Amazingly, she still looked alert and awake.

"I am sorry to inform you, my Lady, that the King has denied your mother, Queen Katherine, permission to nurse you back to health, even though she begged it of him in the humblest of terms, as a distraught mother would"

It bothered the Ambassador that the Lady Mary did not seem surprised or angered, but merely resigned.

"I suppose you were the... mediator between them..." she smiled again, one of her hands briefly skimming over the top of his, clasped over the covers as they were "It was good of you to try... I can imagine it must not have been a pleasant experience"

"It was my pleasure, Sweet Lady. I only regret having let you and Queen Katherine down"

She wanted to contradict him, to stop him from putting more blame onto his shoulders, but it was getting harder and harder to speak, to muster the energy to talk at all. She feared going to sleep, not only for the nightmarish visions that haunted her- visions of the demonic visage of the Duke of Wiltshire as he gloated over the victory of his family over her and her poor mother, visions of the harlot practising witchcraft and of Lady Bryan accusing her of intending to cause harm to her half-sister- but also because she feared she might not wake up again.

"Excellency..." her voice was barely a whisper, accompanied by a motion of her hand, which grasped his "Tell me a story... Any story. Something amusing, something happy"

Happiness was not something he could conjure up in his mind at such a time but, nevertheless, he delved deep, looking for some pleasing and engaging anecdote he could relate. He talked about everything and nothing, wondering every now and then where Linacre had gone off to, keeping his voice soothing yet lively enough to capture her attention. Finally, reluctantly, the Lady Mary fell asleep and the Ambassador was able to change postures, for kneeling at the foot of the bed was doing nothing for his gout. Unwilling to leave the vicinity of the princess, the Imperial Envoy contented himself with taking a seat by the door, on the hallway, and prepared himself for an uncomfortable night spent mostly dozing on and off and trying to keep his mind from focusing on what would happen if the worst came to pass. Linacre was the one to find him, awkwardly slumped against an ornate chair with his eyes closed. It only took a light shake of his shoulders to bring him crashing into reality.

"What?" he was up and staring at the good doctor faster than he would have imagined he could "Has something happened? What time is it? Is the...?"

The physician opened his mind, hesitated, then closed it again. That enough was cause for the Ambassador to push him aside and enter the Lady Mary's chambers. The early light of dawn was barely present, since the window was ever-so-small, and all the candles had been consumed at some point during the night. The fire agonized in the corner, scarcely spreading any heat and almost no light. There was no movement from the bed, the princess lay ever-so-still, her head titled to the side and her face covered by a curtain of hair. He approached her cautiously, needing to know and dreading to at the same time. For once disregarding protocol and the abysm that separated the daughter of a king from a commoner he placed one large palm over her forehead at the same time he used his other hand to check for a pulse. The coolness of her forehead registered in his mind at the same time that he felt the steady throbbing of her veins on her wrist. He felt like falling on his knees in relief.

"The Lord is good" he crossed himself, colour he did not know he had lost returning to his face. From behind him he heard Linacre enter the room.

"She is not out of the woods yet, Excellency, but my experience with her tells me she will pull through"

The Imperial Ambassador could barely hear the physician over the roaring of his blood in his ears. He took a deep breath – _Damn it, man, pull yourself together!-_ and nodded. Heartless as he felt, he knew it was time to leave. His absence from Court had been unplanned and the time to return to his duties had come. He made his excuses to the doctor and, without looking back, left the oppressive confines of Hatfield House. He walked the short distance to the stables, where he had left Rafael in charge of their horses for the night. He caught him dozing off over a pile of hay, so he coughed discreetly to wake him up. At once the boy was up and alert, looking concernedly at his master. The boy was strangely fond of Queen Katherine and her daughter.

"Excellency" he said in his native Spanish "What news are there?"

The Ambassador, taking care not to be too optimistic, related to Rafael the status of the princess's health.

"Rafael" the Ambassador's voice took on a soft, sweet tone that put his servant on high alert "As I have it understood you have a sort of... understanding with one of the maids here, isn't that so?"

The boy nodded dumbly, wondering where his employer was going.

"You should stay here, then, a couple more days. It would be a shame for you not to spend some time with her. After all you don't come here often" he paused and motioned the lad to get closer so he could whisper to him "Keep your ears open for any updates on the princess's condition and, as soon as you hear Linacre deem her out of danger, you are to return and tell me. I dare not tell the Queen anything till I am sure of it"

"Yes, Excellency" the acquiescence was instantaneous. No ifs or buts, never with Rafael. Fleming was the one who sometimes had something to say. Rafael, young as he was, was just eager to learn and to be of service. He was, also, more than a bit intimidated by the Ambassador.

It was two days before Rafael ventured back to London with the definite news that the princess was making a full recovery. As the Ambassador sat down to write to the Queen urgently he tried to tell himself the smile he was wearing was a consequence of being for the first time a bearer of good news, and nothing more.

* * *

(1) "Mama... where is my mama? I need her" - I did not want to translate "mamá" to "mother", because the term "mamá" is an affectionate form that "mother" does not convey.


	4. Eve in the Garden

**AN: I've done something bad... I have started to skim through season 2 again, since it has been a long time since I've seen it, and I realized Chapuys and Mary met when she was still at Ludlow Castle, not afterwards when she went to Hatfield to serve her sister. I should have checked the facts a little more closely but I had no recollection of that one meeting between the Ambassador and the Princess at Ludlow, so I assumed they had met later on.**

**Also, please if you feel the Ambassador and the Lady Mary are getting too close too quickly, keep in mind that there are lots of meetings between them that I'm not writing, and they correspond as well. It's all very proper, but at this point they are starting to feel like close friends. As for the song, Scarborough Fair dates back to the XII century or so, but I could only find the most "modern" version, so I stuck with that one. For a lovely rendition I recommend Hayley Westenra. She has a great voice and her performance of this song is great. If you have it I recommend listening to it while reading this chapter.**

**Also, I apologize for the one day delay. Originally I was going to post a chapter about Queen Katherine's death, but then I felt the need to write a filler chapter to show them interacting in a more mundane, day-to-day manner... And it so didn't work out like that, as you will see. I swear, this thing wrote itself and it's nothing like I imagined! Bad chapter, bad! So, I wrote this in two days. You get Queen Katherine's death next, a chapter I rather like, cause it gives me the opportunity to write snide!Chapuys and to explore some of the issues between Mary and her father.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

People could say a lot about the English Court, but no one could accuse it of being boring. In the blink of an eye Bishop Fisher had suffered an assassination attempt that had claimed the lives of four innocent people and had been later imprisoned, first held under house arrest then transferred to a dingy cell with nothing but rags to dress himself with and putrid food to nourish his body. Thomas More had gone from educating whom he believed to be the most intelligent and pious prince in Christendom to being abused and suspected by the most cruel monarch in Europe and Chapuys, foolish as he had been, had grown to care for both men only to see them fall out of favour and into disgrace. To make matters worse, his sporadic visits to Queen Katherine were downright killing him. To see such a sainted Lady, an _Infanta_, so diminished, so sickly and pale, worrying about her friends and allys and unable to do anything about it, threatened with the scaffold and separated from her daughter, the light of her life, was more than he could bear. This awful country was aging him, and he felt deeply its toll on his body, and most importantly on his soul.

"You haven't been sleeping, Excellency" such a bold observation could come from no other that Fleming "We are beginning to seriously worry about your health"

"We?" the soft, complacent tone of the Ambassador did not fool the Englishman, who knew he needed to tread carefully.

"Rafael and myself, that is. Of course, the boy does not have the heart- or the backbone, for that matter- to bring it up himself. But we can both hear you pacing at night. We see light in your room at the wee hours of the morning. We see the bags under your eyes, Excellency, and how pale you are becoming. And we wonder how long this can go on till you become unfit to even get out of bed in the morning"

Blunt and brutal, one could always count on Fleming to deliver the truth in a simple, straightforward way. Not the mark of a good diplomat, but he had time to learn subtlety and... well, deception.

"I see" the calmness of the Ambassador's voice was starting to scare the valet "I suppose you intend to do something about this... preoccupation of yours"

"Of course not, sir. An English valet knows his place" the response was instantaneous and carried and undertone of reproach that was, all in all, pretty convincing "I was merely making an observation"

Rafael, poor, meek, tongue-tied Rafael with his thick Spanish accent and soulful brown eyes, disguised his snort as a cough. As much as he admired and equally feared the Imperial Ambassador, he knew Fleming to be quite devious when he needed be, even to the point of outsmarting the native of Savoy from time to time. The little Spaniard often kept quiet about all he saw, content with just soaking in as much experience and wisdom as he could.

Sleepless days followed sleepless nights. The Ambassador's gout, a minor problem, began acting out in response to the debilitating state of the man's body, and still Chapuys did nothing. How could he rest when it all was falling apart so quickly? Brereton, he had concluded, was the worst assassin ever to grace the Earth, yet he still hoped God would guide him in his task and allow him to rid the world of the whore who had usurped Queen Katherine's throne. He was also worried for Sir Thomas, man he not only called his friend, but also one of the greatest minds of the Humanist movement. He was also the last friendly face he had on Court, not counting the Duke of Suffolk, who always seemed to be on the fence about all subjects concerning the king.

It was probably his debilitating state of mind that allowed Fleming's blatant manipulation to escape him. He was reviewing his letters and papers, trying to make some sense out of the mess his writing desk had become, when Fleming planted the suggestion in his mind, using poor Rafael as his living bait.

"I am so sorry, Excellency, this disorder reflects very poorly on my capacity to do my job, I am very aware" the apology came out of nowhere and that should have tipped the Ambassador to the fact that something was off, but he was too tired to care. Outside his rooms he was always vigilant, always alert and mistrusting, but in the privacy of his inner sanctuary, and given his current state, he had let his guard slip, and Fleming had seen it.

"It's just that Rafael has been rather unhelpful lately" Fleming played the part of the disgruntled servant angry at having to do the job of two men rather nicely "That boy is going to be the death of me with his sighs and his mournful gazes"

Having laid the trap, the valet patiently waited for the prey to fall into it.

"Whatever is wrong with the boy?"

Fleming studiously fought to keep the glee out of his face. For effect he waited until his master raised the goblet of water to his lips before replying:

"He misses his Mary"

Ambassador Chapuys choked on his mouthful of water, taking several minutes to stop coughing and several more to calm himself down enough to speak as nonchalantly as possible:

"I beg your pardon?"

Fleming was inwardly patting himself on the back, but forced himself not to react. He was almost on the clear.

"His... woman friend, sir" he elaborated "The maid from Hatfield House. Apparently, since you haven't gone to visit for a long time he has been pining for her. Most unbecoming" he added enough disdain and anger into his voice to make it believable "As a result his work has gotten sloppy, and I cannot trust him to run a simple errand"

The Ambassador's eyebrows shot up, his drained mind processing sluggishly what the valet had revealed to him, as his eyes darted toward the neat pile of letters tied together at the corner of his desk. They were all Princess Mary's. Somehow they had gone from polite enquiries about her mother, her cousin and the state of affairs at court to detailed discussions on what she was reading (at least those books it was safe to admit she was reading), lively debates over music (he did not care much for it, she was passionate about it) and engaging anecdotes and retellings about their daily lives. No matter how dull, or unbearably long, or horribly unproductive his day was, he always seemed to be able to find some solace in her missives.

But on some other days, letters just where not enough to pull him out of his awful state, a mix of exhaustion, self-pity, failure and anger. Fortunately for Fleming, he had caught the Ambassador at precisely one of those days.

"I suppose it has been a while since I last visited Hatfield" he murmured to no one in particular. He had not been to the residence of Princess Elizabeth Tudor since the Lady Mary has been ill. He had wanted to go on several occasions, but there was always something important- and most of the time horrible- happening at Court that demanded his attention. Also, and this he did not want to admit, he did not have an excuse to see her. Things had reached a certain stasis, like the calm before a storm. He had no doubt something was going to happen, but for now there was an uneasy silence. And silence meant he did not have a reason to ride all the way to Hatfield House.

"I understand, sir. You have had no reason to do so, thanks be to God" the next part was tricky "One cannot expect you to visit simply to keep a lonely princess company from time to time. After all, you have enough to worry about here. I am sure the princess can cope"

Seconds ticked by slowly, achingly slowly. Fleming feared he had said too much, had gone further than a servant was supposed to. Rafael, hidden behind the door, waited with baited breath for the Ambassador's reaction, hands clasping a napkin like it was some sort of holy relic. Finally, after some ruminating, Chapuys exhale deeply, like he had lost some sort of battle, most likely with himself.

"Now that you mention it, things around here have not progressed much this past few days. I should seize the opportunity to visit the princess, for I might not have time to spare away from court later. Besides" and at this point he turned fully towards Fleming, one eyebrow raised and a sardonic smile playing about his lips "We wouldn't want you to suffer Rafael's moodiness for much longer, now would we?"

'Damn' Fleming's countenance did not betray his inner disappointment 'He caught me'. Still, he considered it a draw. Clearly the Ambassador had realized what he had been up to, but the valet, at the end of the day, had gotten his way.

* * *

When he had been informed that the princess was "somewhere in the gardens", the Imperial Envoy had bitten back the usual sarcastic comments that danced tantalizingly at the tip of his tongue. Though happy to not see her doing some menial chore, like it was usually the case, it bothered him that no one at Hatfield House bothered with the welfare of the daughter of Katherine of Aragon. After all, harm could easily befall a woman of royal blood with a sizeable number of enemies. It further proved that the Lady Mary did not provoke the paternal feelings she used to in the heart of the King of England... Not that he would ever tell her that. He had no heart to rob the princess of her hope.

He had had trouble to locate her. The grounds were large and there were many secluded places shaded from his eyes by vegetation. He found her sitting against an old tree by a lake, one of her customary black dresses spread above the grass. She was staring into the water and humming, fingers idly fiddling with a lute. The fair weather had added colour to her countenance and she looked serene and healthy, in contrast to the last time he had seen her.

"I am glad to see you so much improved, my Lady"

His voice startled her out of her reverie, but her frown quickly turned into a smile when her eyes found his. She made a motion to stand, which he halted with a gesture of his hand and a "Please, do not bother on my account".

"Then please, Excellency, join me, if you do not object to sitting on the grass" the Lady Mary's words carried a hint of playful challenge, which the diplomat met with as much grace as he could muster in his current weakened state. After hours on horseback it felt nice to stretch his legs in the moist earth.

"The Lady Bryan has been... much more accommodating since my illness. As I have told you I've never had great reason to complain, but I have missed having time to myself outside and..." she grasped the lute tighter in her hands "Well, other things"

She sounded happy, or as close as happy as he had ever heard her, and he smiled in response. This, however, caused her to frown in return, her eyes roaming over his face in a way that made him feel self-conscious in a way he had never felt before.

"You are unwell" she observed quietly, her head titling to a side.

"'tis nothing, my Lady" he denied it instinctively, his eyes darting towards the lake, for he could not lie to her face "Do not concern yourself over it"

The Lady Mary frowned again, her own gaze leaving the Ambassador's face. She affected a faintly wounded look and said in a quiet voice:

"I understand if you do not wish to tell me. I apologize for prying"

Unlike Fleming's, Mary's manipulation went unnoticed, perhaps because she was a woman, perhaps because she was a princess, or perhaps because Ambassador Chapuys truly believed her to be above all manner of deceit. Foolish man.

"You were not prying, princess" in the loneliness of the garden he allowed himself to use her proper title "I apologize for implying otherwise" he paused and sighed, debating on whether to unburden himself on her or keep quiet.

"Excellency" the Lady Mary's tone was trying to mask uncertainty "We are friends... are we not?"

Phrased as an affirmation, her statement was more a question that anything else. The instinctive response that the question originated in Chapuys was that he was too lowly a person to be considered friend of a princess, a granddaughter of Isabel of Castile and Fernando of Aragon. But such a response would shatter the moment, and would also greatly displease the princess, who would see it as an easy way to avoid answering the question. In a way, it was.

"I think so, yes, my Lady, if my acrid comments about the frivolity of courtly music have not completely tarnished any good opinion you may have had of me" he smiled down at her, an open, honest gesture that felt almost foreign to him. He could not remember the last time he had felt more relaxed in a long time. The fresh grass underneath him, the breeze carrying the scent of the coming spring, the placid lake and the total lack of backstabbing courtiers made him remember simpler times of his youth in Savoy.

"I do not consider you a lost cause regarding music yet, Excellency" the princess's smile could be considered coy, yet it was devoid of all the arts and allurements that such a word implied. It was a natural gesture, more woman than royal, the first involuntary use of her charm as a female. The Ambassador feared that, with a little experience and age, she would be irresistible. Yet he doubted she would ever use her appeal the way he had seen women at Court do.

"I appreciate your perseverance and optimism, my Lady" it felt nice to use his wit and sarcasm without malice. Lady Mary opened her eyes wide in surprise and an involuntary chuckle escaped her lips.

"You are making fun of me, Excellency!" she laughed openly now, seeming delighted "No one has ever made fun of me before!"

Her laugh was contagious and soon the Ambassador was openly laughing along with her, his deep, rumbling bark contrasting against her more feminine laugh. At some point both realized they were laughing simply because they needed to, and because it felt wonderful. It died down eventually, and it was followed by a comforting sort of silence that lasted till the Ambassador made up his mind.

"I... I haven't been sleeping well" he smiled ruefully, his eyes never leaving the lake, never meeting hers "I have a lot on my mind, many doubts and fears that keep me awake even though I want nothing more than to rest"

The silence that followed the statement was contemplative. Mary, realizing she was probably the first person to hear of the Ambassador's problem, wanted to think carefully on the matter before giving a reply of any kind. Eustace, on the other hand, simply relished the sensation of having unburdened himself.

"Thank you for telling me, Excellency. I know that you feel it is your duty to protect me, to fight for my cause and my mother's, but I am glad you feel comfortable enough to trust me with your problem, to let me be the one who helps you, for a change" she smiled kindly, and ghosted her right hand over his left arm "It is nice being able to repay all you do for us in a small way"

The princess was not someone prone to physical displays of affection, the Ambassador had noticed that fairly quickly, but he was starting to get used to her ghost-like touches.

"You think too highly of me, my Lady" he smiled sadly, a hint of self-pity seeping through "I do not feel very good about the way I have been performing my duties as of late. It seems that it matters little what I do or do not. Horrible things keep happening all around me, and I am powerless to stop them"

Lady Mary listened intently, trying to place herself in his position.

"I know you to be a devout man, Excellency. I knew that before meeting you, from what I had managed to overhear people around me say. But since meeting you I have also come to know that you are a very self-sufficient person. You have worked and studied rigorously to get where you are, and I find it very commendable. Your position in my father's Court, I imagine, is not an easy one, yet you have managed not only to survive but to prosper. I doubt that, given how things currently stand, any other Imperial Envoy would have managed not to be sent back to Spain. I know I speak without having much knowledge on how the world works, but I know enough to recognize your extraordinary talent. I have been around courtiers most of my life, I like to think that has taught me some things. I admire your predisposition to take action, but one must remember, Excellency, that at the end of the day God's will be done" she paused, trying to phrase her thoughts accurately "When all is said and done, Excellency, you are but a man, and sometimes, no matter how good your intentions are or how hard you labour to accomplish something, the course of things will be beyond your power. You must then lay back, content in the knowledge that you have done all you could, and put your trust in the Lord. I have no doubt that, in some way or another, your prayers will be answered"

Though the Lady Mary's words were coated with the naiveté of someone still too young, there was wisdom in them, not merely faith, and a confidence that the Ambassador envied. Her serene voice imbued her words with an air of unfailing truth that he appreciated more than words could say.

"You are very wise for one so young, Lady Mary" he said softly, conceding her point.

A third silence descended upon the pair, and the Ambassador closed his eyes for a while. The princess, partly to occupy herself and partly to test a theory, grabbed her forgotten lute, plucking the strings easily, expertly. The tune she played was an old English song Lady Salisbury had sang to her many a night in order to get her to sleep, and one she sometimes sang to Elizabeth when no one was around and she started crying.

"_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Remember me to one who lives there_

_He once was a true love of mine"_

The Ambassador's eyes snapped open, his gaze turning to the princess with surprise written all over it.

"I am sorry. Did I disturb you, Excellency?" she sounded truthful "It has been a while since I have played and sang in front of anyone and longer since I have last received lessons. Perhaps I am a tad out of practise"

Chapuys closed his eyes again, shaking his head.

"Please, my Lady, go on"

The princess smiled, nodded and centred her attention back on the lute.

"_Ask him to find me an acre of land._

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Between the salt water and the sea-sand,_

_For then he'll be a true love of mine._

_Ask him to plough it with a sheep's horn._

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_And sow it all over with one peppercorn,_

_For then he'll be a true love of mine._

_When he has done and finished his work._

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Ask him to come for his cambric shirt,_

_For then he'll be a true love of mine._

_If you say that you can't, then I shall reply._

_Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._

_Oh, Let me know that at least you will try,_

_Or you'll never be a true love of mine"_

When the last string was plucked and the lute fell silent, the Lady Mary realized the Ambassador was asleep, apparently all-too-comfortable with his back propped against the mossy trunk of a tree and his legs spread out over wet grass. Having no heart to wake him up, as she knew he would have liked, she rummaged in her mind for some other folk song or lullaby she remembered from her childhood, taking care to keep an eye out on the sun, to make sure she woke the Ambassador up in time for him to return safely to London. She was unaware that, a few meters behind the tree she was leaning against, a dark-haired Spaniard stood in silent vigil of his master and his Lady, ready to intercept the first inopportune man or woman who dared ruin the first peaceful sleep his master had had in weeks.

* * *

**I like Fleming and Rafael, and they will pretty much figure a lot in the plot. Please let me know if someone is horribly OOC or if I have wronged history in some part. And review, if you feel inclined!**


	5. Even in Death

**AN: Here is a somewhat longer chapter, filled with Chapuys at his snidest, but not enough Chary for my liking. Also I apologize to SSLE if this chapter resembles in any way your take on the death of Katherine of Aragon in Take this Waltz. I cannot help but be influenced by it, since it was so wonderfully written!**

**Also, Argentina won against Nigeria, so I am over the moon (though I am unspeakably mad at my team's lousy defence). And this chapter is dedicated to new Chary fan Aubrey Woods. Welcome to the dark side, Aubrey.**

**Enojy!**

* * *

_"Even in death, love goes on" - Evanescence_

...

Kimbolton Castle looked as dreary and unwelcoming as the last time the Ambassador had attempted to visit Queen Katherine. He had been denied entrance, as it had happened many times before, but he had managed to meet with the Queen's closest companion, Lady Elizabeth Darrell. She had given him grim news about her Majesty's health, which had quickly deteriorated since he last had news of her. He had been able to deliver secret letters from the Emperor and the Princess Mary to the Maid of Honour, knowing her loyalty made her a safe mediator, a most trusted servant. He had written anxiously to his master as soon as he had returned to Whitehall but, as he had suspected, it had all been for nothing. Days later news of the most terrible kind had reached him: Queen Katherine was dead.

He remembered feeling, when he had first found out, that it was somehow all his fault. He had failed the Emperor, he had failed Katherine of Aragon, he had failed God, he had failed, failed, failed...

Self-pity never stood well with him, so he had quickly cast it aside. He had no time to dwell on his guilt over his lack of success in what had been dubbed the "King's Great Matter", he had to move, to act, to do something. He had quickly made arrangements to leave Court, intent on getting as much information on the circumstances surrounding the death as he could and that's how he found himself outside Kimbolton Castle, being received by a weeping Lady Darrell, who looked like she had not slept in days and could speak only in short, hiccupping sentences. Still, she was coherent enough to explain as thoroughly as she could how the Queen's last moments had been, though it wasn't a pretty narrative.

"She ached all over" the young woman had to fight her sobs to speak at all "But she never complained. She..." the Lady Darrell bit her lip, wondering if she should say what she was thinking

"I assure you, Lady Darrell, that whatever you confide in me will not be repeated to anyone else" the Ambassador assure the faithful lady-in-waiting, who nodded.

"She was not all that lucid, I am afraid. She was not deranged or anything, but she has trouble distinguishing truth from dreams" a pause to let of a sob, a hand moving to dab her eyes "She imagined that the Princess Mary, her daughter, was there with her. That she had come after so many years of separation. I felt it would be too cruel to disillusion her, so I said nothing" another pause, more tears "She called the princess her angel, and there was such love in her voice, that when she revealed to me what she had seen I agreed with her. It was a white lie, one I know God will forgive"

The Ambassador nodded sympathetically, swiftly changing the topic to tackle the arrangements that had to be made according to Her Majesty's last wishes. Unsurprisingly such an endeavour turned out to be a bitter struggle to uphold Queen Katherine's will against the wishes of her enemies, namely the Boleyns and the cunning Cromwell, who was merciless in his intention to confiscate every small thing that the Infanta had managed to leave in this Earth. Those were sombre and unpleasant days at court, filled with frustration and a need the Ambassador had never felt before to inflict physical pain in his enemies, to strike them and draw their blood. Such impulses, overly-rewarded by the nobility, had always seemed base and below his humanity, yet he understood them now, as he felt them boil in his veins and torment him.

Joining in the torment was the idea that all this struggle had detained him at court long enough for the sombre news to reach Hatfield House before he could go there himself. He took little confort in ensuring some of the Infanta's possessions reached her daughter safe and sound. By the time he began his journey to Hertfordshire the fire had turned to ice in his blood and his patience had all but disappeared.

* * *

"Are you aware of the time, your Excellency?" the Lady Bryan's tone could have cut through solid steel "'tis most improper for you to just show up at the residence of a princess of England at these hours"

The Lady Governess was a stern and frightening creature, many a maid could testify to that, but next to the icy, imposing figure of the Imperial Ambassador she seemed diminished. There was some sort of aura of danger around the usually calm and collected diplomat. He was still as unresponsive as he had ever been but he looked ready to snap at the slightest provocation. He was not someone to trifle with, at least not that night.

"Frankly, Lady Bryan, I could care less" he replied carelessly, his eyes not betraying him, all his emotions contained in his hands, clasped together at his back, knuckles white with the force of his grip "I have no doubt you are aware of the circumstances that have brought me here"

The Lady's eyes, at last, reflected a hint of pity, and he knew that she wished there had been something, some form of comfort, she could have given the Lady Mary. But she was not her charge anymore, and Hatfield House was filled with supporters of the Boleyn faction that would have reported her actions without a second thought. She had her own family to think of, her children and grandchildren to put above everything else. She could not risk losing the favour of the crown, no matter who the one wearing it at the moment was.

"You needn't have bothered yourself with the journey, Excellency" Lady Bryan felt the need to lash out at this man who always brought with his visits a sense of guilt, who reminded her of her wrongdoings with regards to the former Tudor Princess, the little girl she had sworn once to her mother to always protect and that, unlike others like the more faithful Lady Salisbury, she had betrayed in a way, by allowing to be used as an instrument of the Boleyn's revenge against her and her mother "The Lady Mary has already been notified of the news by the Lady Ashley and myself"

The Ambassador's nails dug deeply into his palms as he increased the force of his clasp in an attempt to stifle his anger, to bury it, save it for when he was alone and in his own chambers.

"You did?" a pause, and heavy breathing, a struggle to remain in control "I trust you were... As gentle as such a situation would demand"

Sarcasm so thick and heavy it seemed to permeate the air and mock the Lady Bryan over and over. A tone that would stick with her for years to come, accompanied by the remembrance of the Lady Mary, pale and shaking as she found out her beloved mother, whom she had not seen for four years, was gone from this Earth, her last moments ones of sorrow and poverty, of worry and misery.

"Of course" the Lady's voice took an immediate defensive edge that gave her away "She seemed very calm and composed, and did not even cry" that much was true, Mary had been a true daughter of Catherine of Aragon at that time, drawing herself tall and defiant, unwilling to show any hint of weakness in the face of those she did not and should not trust "It was the reaction of an Englishwoman, Excellency, and I do not expect you to understand it"

Nonsense. Complete an utter nonsense. Lies, all of them, piling one over the other. That was all the English seemed to be good for. Lying to him, to others and to themselves. The Ambassador cursed the day he had taken up his current post, cursed it and blessed it, for it allowed him to do what little good he could to people who deserved it above everyone else.

"I think it is you, Lady Bryan, who does not understand" a smirk of superiority and of bitterness, for he hated being right at such a time, hated seeing what others did not or would not "I wish to see the Lady Mary. I know she does not sleep, so do not bother with a lie, Madam"

That acerbic "Madam" sounded like the vilest of insults, a veritable slap in the face of the Lady Governess. Lady Ashley, who had remained quiet in a corner, disapproving of the liberties the Ambassador was taking, decided to be rid of him.

"She's in the chapel, has been praying all day there" she said shortly, her tone turning scornful like it always did when the Lady Mary was involved "Hasn't said a word to anyone since she was told of her mother's passing. I very much doubt, your Excellency, that she would welcome any intrusion"

"I will take my chances" more sarcasm, and a dismissive tone that let everyone know how little the Ambassador think of the Lady Ashley or her assumptions "Ladies"

A short, almost insulting bow and the Ambassador was gone, amazingly having managed not to lose his composure. Rafael trembled behind him, wishing Fleming had not gotten sick with food poisoning the day before so he would not have to be there, between a rock (his master) and a hard place (Hatfield House and all its inhabitants, with the exception of his... woman friend).

The chapel was cold when they arrived, and barely lit by a few sparse candles. At first Rafael thought no one was there but, sure enough, kneeling before the altar, still as a statue, was a dark figure, tiny and easily looked over. The Spaniard's heart, filled with pure devotion for the angel his master looked after, nearly broke. The Ambassador, nevertheless, did not seem as bothered.

"Rafael" Chapuy's whispered voice was so neutral that it almost did not seem human "Stand vigil outside the chapel. If anyone approaches, let me know" there was a pause and, finally, some semblance of feeling when the Ambassador added "I do not want anyone to disturb my Lady's mourning"

"Yes, sir, of course"

Leaving one of the massive oak doors ajar the Ambassador spent some time contemplating the rigid back of the Lady Mary Tudor. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light he started noticing more details: the glint of the lady's ever-present diadem, the intricate work of the ornate gold cross she was kneeling before, the delicate lace on the edges of the cloth used to cover the altar.

"My Lady..." he ventured when he noticed that Mary had either not noticed his presence or was reluctant to acknowledge it. However, he got no response, only an endless stream of Latin, signalising she was praying. Her voice was low but steady. He knew she had not heard him, he thought her incapable of being rude or disrespectful. He took several steps closer, afraid to startle her yet determined to get her to notice him.

"My Lady, please"

More Latin, whispered with the ease of someone who not only recites it but understands it. From his new perspective Eustace could see that the Lady's eyes were tightly closed and her hands were firmly clasped at the level of her face, her grip rather strong.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum..."

At first sight she looked just as the Lady Bryan had described her. Calm, collected, eerily serene. Except she seemed so detached from everything and everyone she couldn't hear him. Except that, once he knelt before her, he could see tears silently running down her cheeks. Except that from her tightly-pressed hands a stream of blood came out, droplets falling from her wrist and hitting the cold stone floor. The Ambassador was appalled.

"My Lady!" his voice was at once dismayed and saddened, reproachful and empathetic.

"Sancta Maria, mater dei, ora... ora… ora pro nobis pecatoribus…"

Softly, gently, he took her hands in his, noticing they were ice cold, hardly a surprise taking into account how chilly it was inside the austere chapel. He pried them open, feeling them tremble as they dropped what they had been holding: a silver crucifix, simple and unadorned but with sharp edges stained with the princess's blood. It took the ambassador a split-second to recognize the cross as one of the former Queen of England's possessions.

"My Lady, please, let me help" his tone was soothing and sweet, like honey. The princess seemed to be out of it, her unfocused eyes not leaving the bloody cross as it lay on the floor in front of her. Eustace took a deep breath and reached for his handkerchief, pressing it to his Lady's palms as gently as he could, trying to get it to soak up as much blood as it could. It unsettled him profoundly, seeing her blood, even though he had seen worse wounds, even fatal ones, without being affected in the slightest. Without knowing why he let his right thumb caress the pulse point at her wrist, and her eyes finally snapped to his, her whole being filling with sudden realization of where she was, and who was kneeling next to her. For the longest time neither spoke. Mary looked startled, breathing so harshly the Ambassador feared for a moment she was panicking, that somehow he was making it all worse. But her eyes did not look scared, they looked lost and confused. She opened her mouth several times to speak, but nothing came out. Finally, in a voice so full of disbelief, she whispered words Chapuys never thought he would hear from her:

"He killed my mother"

The Imperial Envoy's eyes went wide, his mind understanding at once what the princess was implying. In a thousand years he never would have thought she would admit it to herself, let alone anyone else. After all, everyone made excuses for him, everyone blamed others for his decisions, his actions. It was the way they had been raised, it was ingrained in their minds, it beat in their blood. A King is chosen by God. He can think no evil, speak no evil and do no evil. If he goes astray, those closest to him are to blame. Chapuys had long ceased to consider those of royal blood above every reproach, even though he believed them to be divinely meant to rule. But he had gotten to know some of them, his master and the King of England, on a private level, as men with flaws and faults who sometimes made wrong decisions, who gave themselves to temptations of the flesh, to thirst of revenge, to the ambition of more power than the one they already had. He had been made into a cynic after so many years of faithful service. His loyalty to the Emperor was beyond question, but it was a loyalty devoid of that blind adoration monarchs seemed to inspire in everyone else.

But the Lady Mary was a pure, innocent soul, too young and too loving to be as jaded as he was. He thought she would at least fool herself into thinking it was all the harlot's fault, that she had cast such a spell on her father as to make him blameless for his actions, for all the mistreatment of her mother and of herself. Yet there she was, bleeding and heartbroken not just because her mother, whom she had not seen in over four years, had died, but because she knew, _she knew_, that her father had killed her, either by something he had done or something he hadn't. He had been the cause of her mother's death, no matter what she had died of.

"He... He killed my mother" disbelief was giving way to anger, mixed with despair "He killed my mother! He _killed_ my mother!"

The tears at last became sobs that choked her, preventing her from voicing her accusation once more. She clutched her midsection, as if someone had stabbed her there, and was left gasping for air that would not come because she was so sad and so furious at the same time she could not breathe, only sob and bleed and feel like dying.

He took her in his arms before she collapsed, moving on instinct. She was light and cold, awkward in his embrace, as if she did not know how to react to someone holding her. But it did not take her long to sink against him, her head against his shoulder, her face pressing against the side of his neck, her body curling up against him, borrowing strength and heat from the imposing figure of the Ambassador. She sobbed quietly and he rocked her ever-so-softly, treating her as if she was made of the finest china.

"My dear Lady" he muttered, surprised when he heard his voice come out hoarse and broken "I am so sorry"

They were simple words, but the emotion present in his voice gave them power and substance.

"I dreamed of her, in her deathbed, agonizing" the princess voice was quiet, yet it resonated in the deserted chapel "She was in pain, but so happy to see me... Calling me her angel, her sweetheart, her preciosa... It felt so real, Excellency. Like I was really in her arms, even if it was for a brief moment"

The Ambassador remembered Lady Darrell's account of the Queen's waking dream of being reunited with her daughter and felt comforted in the knowledge that, maybe, the Lord had indeed triumphed where he had failed, as the princess had told him not long ago, and mother and daughter had been able to be reunited in spirit, if not in reality.

It took him twenty minutes to realize the princess had quieted down and fallen asleep, the weight of all she had been through finally catching up with her. She had some colour on her face, no doubt because the Ambassador had wrapped his coat around her to warm her up. She was swaddled in it, small and frail, no longer the defiant, proud figure she had been in front of the Lady Bryan and the other inhabitants of Hatfield House. Chapuys knew himself to be privileged to see such a sight. He doubted there was anyone else in the world, now that her sainted mother was in the presence of the Lord, who would ever get to see her like that and he felt selfish to enjoy such a thought, for it meant she was all alone, parentless and friendless.

'She will always have me' he thought, looking at the bloody cross in the floor as some sort of horrible omen he would never allow to come to pass 'Her humblest servant, her dearest ally'. It should have scared him that such a delicate, unassuming girl could command such loyalty from him, but he knew, instinctively, that she would never abuse his fidelity, would never use it against him, to force him to do things he did not wish to do, or go against innocent people. He was safe in her hands, just as she was in his.

He did not question where this left his duty to his master, he was not about to spoil this moment of revelation. Instead he, somehow, manoeuvred himself into a standing position, quite a feat taking into account his gout and the fact that he was carrying the princess in his arms. Lady Mary did not stir or move, and he surmised she must have been emotionally exhausted. Maintaining his grip on her secure yet gentle he walked out of the chapel, startling his servant, who was lounging against a stonewall near the door.

"Master, what...?" he stuttered, noticing the bundle in his master's arms and knowing by its size that it had to weight more than the Ambassador, with his sickness, could handle.

"Hush, Rafael" the envoy reprimanded quietly, and the servant immediately understood why he was being shushed when the bundle in Chapuy's arms stirred and sighed before settling back again.

"La Princesa" the Spaniard gasped reverently, a twinge of sadness blending in with the thick accent "Is she alright, Excellency?"

"No, but she will be" there was no certainty in those words, just desperate hope "She has to be"

He was not detained by anyone on his way to the princess's chambers. Hatfield House was all asleep, silent as a grave. Even in the darkness the Ambassador had no problem navigating through the princess's tiny bedroom and placing her in the simple bed with as much delicacy as he could muster. He did not want to deprive her of some much-needed rest. Too late he realized that, wrapped as she was in his coat, he would have to wake her up to recover it. He didn't have the heart to do that.

"Master, your coat!" Rafael protested when he saw his master leave the princess's chambers without it.

"It is not important. I can retrieve it some other day" the answer was short and gave no room for arguments, not that Rafael would ever dream of questioning anything his master said or did.

They departed soon after that. As much as Chapuys wanted to stay, desperately, he knew his duty was to ensure that the Infanta's dying wishes were obeyed. Still, as his horse galloped away from Hatfield House he had to force himself not to turn his horse back towards her, to shield her from the horrible things the world had to offer, from her wretched revelation concerning her father, from the odious Lady Ashley and the looming threat of the Boleyns... From all those things he knew she needed to face, some on her own, some with all the help she could get. Yet his feelings raged against his reason, clawing at him to get him to turn around. He tightened his grip on the reigns and clenched his teeth, the cold night air helping him clear his head, punishing his horse in an effort to reach London as soon as possible and forget his crazy knight-in-shining-armour notions. He was too old for such silly impulses, in any case.

* * *

**Hated it? Loved it? Was it to OOC for Mary to blame her father for her mother's death? Don't be afraid to voice your opinions!**


	6. Through a Mirror, Darkly

AN: SO SORRY. A million times, SO SORRY. I got caught up in midterms and then finals, and then my B-Day (which in here is still today, so Happy Birthday to me!) and I got horribly uninspired. Till this idea popped up, with some gentle nagging from SSLE (this chapter is for you, for your concern and your wonderful encouragement) and suddenly this chapter had a purpose, and was not merely a filler.

Warning: Chapuys and Mary might be extremely OOC. I struggled with that all through the writing process, second-guessing myself all the way. The idea I had for this chapter was so great I could not help but feeling the execution fell a little short. But either way, I hope you enjoy it! Also, this is the longest chapter so far. That's a guilty bonus.

As always, suggestions and gentle criticism (it's my Birthday, for Goodness's sake, be gentle!) are always welcome. Reviews are practically worshipped.

* * *

London had been, as always, alight with deceit, plotting and death. The whore had been pregnant, the lawful and beloved Queen Katherine had already begun to be forgotten and Brereton had started to annoy him. He had never met such a cowardly would-be assassin, and he had come to accept Brereton was more afraid of seeing blood than eager to rid England of the pernicious influence of the Boleyn Witch. The talk of an alliance between his Majesty the King of England and his own master had been, as far as he was concerned, just talk at the moment, and he had forced himself not to feel encouraged by it. Henry VIII was nothing if not fickle, and also quick to turn on his word. Besides the issue touched an ongoing power struggle between the Boleyns and the ever-growing influence of Thomas Cromwell, a man who was in so many ways so like him it made him uncomfortable, for it exposed to his Excellence all of his flaws as a good Christian. Politics were making him into a man he had no wish to be.

Even the good tidings coming from Spain had done little to lift his spirits. The threat of the Turks had been lifted, however temporally, and it meant his master was going to have enough time and peace to, hopefully, begin addressing the issue of the widespread of heresy throughout the Empire. However, Rome, his would be ally in such an endeavour, was proving to be more of a hindrance than anything else. Charles's pleas for a Council, a dreaded thing for any Pope, to settle the issues of dogma, which he refused to resolve, only dealing with the political issues of the Reformist movement. He knew his master to be on the right, but he also knew that Councils and Popes rarely mixed well together and the decision to call one was more a political struggle than a spiritual debate.

But he had stayed at Court, nevertheless, because his presence was vital at such a defining time. He was needed to put the right amount of pressure in Cromwell, and to defend the pre-conditions so dear to his master's heart, thought he suspected a little ruefully that they were dearer to his own, as his latest reunion with Cromwell had shown him. The unease- actually outright panic, but unease sounded so much better in his ears- he had felt when he had caught the first glimpse of doubt and hesitation in the eyes of his interlocutor had left him uneasy and worried.

It had been then that the dream had first appeared.

It had at first left him confused. He had been trapped in a dark room, with no door. There had been no torches lit, no fireplace roaring, no tiny window in sight. Yet he had been able to see the faint outline of his arms, and the unwashed stonewalls. Looking around the room he had spotted the largest gilded mirror he had ever seen. It was a full-length monstrosity with a heavy golden frame carved into twisted vines and ominous shapes, and it was glowing, casting an unfavourable ice blue light into the room, too faint to hurt his eyes.

He had stepped closer to the mirror, his dreamy reasoning being that he wanted to see if he was unharmed. Yet the light, as he had come closer and closer to the mirror, had become more of a nuisance, pulsating and blurring his sight. When he had finally been close enough to grasp the mirror frame, to steady himself and focus his sight, he had seen, reflected upon the glassy looking-glass, a sickening sight. It was himself, there was no doubt about it, the same posture, the same amazement in his eyes as he felt in his face, the same disgusted expression...

Yet the man in the mirror was Master Cromwell.

As his hands shot to his hair and face, so did the hands of the man in the mirror. As his tremulous fingers grazed his nose and lips, tracing the familiar shape of his face with relief, so did Cromwell's. Breathing heavily, in a state of near-panic that he was not accustomed to, he laid his left palm flat against the cold glass in front of him, horrified when he saw his movements mimicked by the Lord Privy Seal.

"No!" he shouted, and to his horror his voice was echoed by Cromwell's "This is not right!"

He had woken up right after that, sweaty and gasping for air and unable to get any rest for the remainder of the night. He had not dwelt on the nightmare much, it was not unusual for him to be a little restless and anxious from time to time. After all, anxiety practically came with the job.

He had almost forgotten about the room with the mirror when he dreamt about it again. It had gone exactly as the first time, down to the mellifluous voice of the Lord Privy Seal echoing his denial. Fleming had given him funny looks the day after and it had taken a very flustered Rafael to explain that they had both heard him scream bloody murder during the night, and were understandably curious.

He had dismissed it once again, but this time not in the same cavalier manner. He had started to worry weeks later, when he had realized, while perusing some documents late at night, that he was dreading going to sleep. As time went on he found that he counted himself lucky if he was able to get a full night of uninterrupted sleep. It became almost impossible to deal with his work in the professional manner he was accustomed to, he was so tired. Fleming had begun to give him attitude, in a desperate attempt to get the Ambassador to either rely more on him or confide in him a little. It did not work, and it merely made the Ambassador all the more irritable. His long, frequent meetings with the Lord Privy Seal were certainly not helping, though they were necessary for the discussion on how to best remove "their great obstacle".

He paused to remember recent events. He had seen the past following weeks, that the King's eye had wondered away from the marriage bed again, yet it seemed this time it was to be more serious. The lady in question had been quickly appointed as a Lady-In-Waiting to her unhappy Majesty, the Witch Queen, yet this new girl, a blonde, did not seem to be interested in following her predecessor's footsteps. As amazing as it sounded, apparently there was a demure virgin left in England. Two, of course, if he counted the princess, whose purity no one would there question, not even the Boleyns.

Yet, as the days wore on, he had found himself annoyed with Jane Seymour, for her reluctance to distract the King. She was a simple girl, stupid enough to let the opportunity to gain a King's favour pass. He had casually mentioned this to Fleming in passing, mostly venting out loud, but the valet had replied nevertheless, a bit shocked:

"Surely His Excellency is not implying that choosing virtue over political gain is foolish behaviour"

Chapuys had been quick to deny that, implying Fleming had misunderstood him. Yet, when he had found himself alone, he had dropped his head in his hands, acknowledging Fleming had been right. That had been exactly what he had been thinking, and it had taken his valet pointing it out for him to realize how wrong it was.

"Who am I becoming?" he had wondered aloud, one of his hands running through his hair in a nervous gesture while the other had moved to grip a gold crucifix he always carried, muttering prayers that had not felt as comforting as they had always been.

The dream had struck again that night, simple yet downright terrifying. He had snapped at Rafael the following morning, making him cower behind Fleming more than usual. His valet, now beyond feeling compassionate about his plight and now being downright aggravated, had snidely reminded him he had an audience with his "good friend the Lord Privy Seal".

It had almost undone him, that meeting. He had not known himself, he had felt like a stranger was speaking with his voice and exchanging conspiratorial smirks with the right hand of the King while gleefully discussing the downfall of the current Queen.

"Inestimable services he has done to the King?" he had screamed while looking at himself in the only mirror he had in his private quarters "Yes, those services were inestimable indeed... Almost as much as infamous!"

Yet he had gone to court, and he had taken more pleasure than a Christian man should watching Wiltshire and Rochford practically grovel at his feet while he made a show of dismissing some rather questionable oysters. It had all been for naught, however, because what had happened later, his altercation with the King, had robbed him of what little joy he had gotten from coldly dismissing those who had done him and those whose wishes he promoted.

Later on Fleming and Rafael had found him fuming in private, a sight not as unusual as it had once been. The lack of sleep, his tortuous doubts over his more recent behaviour... It was all eating away at him, making him explode in the Embassy in a way very few would expect. And it had been for naught. All of his dealings with Cromwell, with Brereton, all of the manipulating and the lying, the compromising of his morals... It had been for nothing.

"I am afraid I do not understand, Excellency" Fleming's ironic comments had also been making more of an appearance as of late "Are you upset over your questionable behaviour or over the fact that it did not bear fruit?"

And the Ambassador had wished Fleming would stop being so right. That night had found him avoiding his sleeping chambers and arranging his papers. It had been then that he had found the princess's letter, opened but unread as it had been lost among the sea of reports and diplomatic documents, informing him of her recent removal to Hunsdon, entreating him to visit whenever he could.

* * *

Hunsdon felt warmer than Hatfield House, as it was smaller and, rather than stately furnished, it sported a more sensible look, since the money for the upkeep of the state was low. But, fortunately, there was no judgmental Lady Bryan, who he knew to be fighting to keep Hatfield House afloat as the sun of the Boleyns' started to finally set on the political horizon. The Ambassador felt no pity for the Lady Governess or the remaining members of the brat's household, as they had felt no pity in the past for the plight of the true princess. The house was also located slightly closer to London, another small point in its favour. It had been left to gather dust for a long time, however, and Lady Mary had warned him it might shock him at first the rather unfortunate state of the gardens and the outside of the manor, though it still had surprised him the dirt on the brick walls overrun with ivy and the rotting trunks of dead or dying trees.

Those grim thoughts where cut short when Rafael, having grown tired of contemplating Hunsdon at a distance, cleared his throat loudly enough to scare the Ambassador's horse, forcing Eustace to snap into action lest he fall off.

"Smooth, Rafael" he muttered under his breath as he spurred his horse to cover the small distance to the house. Inside, as he had been told, things looked a little better. It was not just the good cleaning the house had obviously received, or the homely feeling the more personal and less ornamental furniture and sparse decoration gave... In a way, it was like finally being on friendly territory. London, Hatfield, Kimbolton... The shadow of the Boleyns and of His Majesty's temper had been present everywhere he had gone, including the home of friends like the late Fisher. He had not realized how much it seemed to suffocate him, to drain him of energy and spirits. Yet Hunsdon seemed to be devoid of such leech-like characteristics. It was a quiet house, but much more friendly than what he was used to.

A young maid, a little girl no older than thirteen, greeted them at the door full of awkwardness and timidity. She was a local girl, no doubt, and had gotten the post on account of how little the princess could afford to pay the help. Yet she seemed friendly and, when she mentioned her mistress was reading in the drawing room her eyes lit up with undisguised admiration.

'Good' Chapuys thought almost despite himself 'The princess could use some unwavering loyalty'. Besides, it was good to know that the people of England thought as highly of the princess as they did of her mother.

Casting aside the little, annoying voice inside that berated him for seeing political gain everywhere he went Eustace allowed himself a moment of friendly concern when his gaze fell on Mary Tudor, hemming a shirt by the fireplace. A Lady-In-Waiting was discreetly doing the same in the far corner of the room, a new addition that pleased the Ambassador as much as it worried him. It befitted the princess's true status to have Ladies-In-Waiting, but he worried about their loyalties. He made a mental note to find out as soon as possible who this new additions to the princess's retinue were and where her families stood at court. Though he doubted the Boleyn Witch, pregnant or not, would have had the influence, as things stood nowadays, to implant spies at Hunsdon, he knew Master Cromwell was more than capable.

'And' the snide little voice inside his head taunted 'It's just what you would have done, isn't it, if you were in Cromwell's shoes?'

"Excellency" the whisper-soft voice of Mary Tudor pulled the Ambassador away from his dark thoughts. She was looking at him with a concerned expression on her face which quite mirrored his own. His eyes quickly scanned her from head to toe in the ever-so-discreet way diplomats seemed to be so good at. She was thinner than before, the black of the dress accentuating her poor condition, but there was an air of peace around her which had seldom been present at Hatfield. Looking at her made every self-doubt he had had and every awful comparison he had made between himself and the conniving Cromwell worth it, even for a little while. Surely such a promising English bud was worth protecting, even if it meant giving up a bit of his high morale every now and then.

"I apologize, my Lady, I got distracted" he smiled and bent to kiss her hand with more reverence, he was sure, than what she was used to, since she ducked her head demurely and squeezed his hand to make the gesture more friendly and personal.

"It is so seldom that I get the opportunity to catch you chasing daydreams, Excellency" her smile was a clear indicator of her teasing, and Eustace wondered briefly when he had last been teased. It seemed to be a lifetime ago, back when he lived surrounded by friends or family, before he had given up his post with Charles of Burgundy to serve the new King of Castile, who was at that moment gathering the necessary funds to acquire the votes that would make him Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. He had never had a peaceful moment in Spain, a land who was foreign and unwelcoming not only to him but also to his new master. England, after the frosty reception he had had in Seville and Madrid, had not seemed as dauntingly uninviting.

He politely refused any refreshments, even though he had been riding for quite some time and he had hardly eaten in the morning. His dishevelled appearance, the result of his recent restless state, made him more self-conscious than he had ever been, particularly since he found himself unable to pretend like he did in Hampton Court, where deceit was a necessary tool for survival. For some unexplainable reason, it felt wrong and insulting to pretend in front of the princess.

"Excellency" Lady Mary's voice, hesitant, made him lift his eyes from the roaring fire and turn them towards her. She looked uncertain, cautious, yet determined at the same time. She had offered him a seat next to him, in the most comfortable armchair he had ever encountered, and he realized with embarrassment that he had been close to dozing off. He straightened up almost immediately.

"Yes, my lady?" his attempt at a smile, as tired as he was, did little to reassure the princess, who carefully set her needlework down by a nearby table and folded her hands gently on her lap, looking at them for a while before lifting her gaze to his.

"I know it's usually me who comes to you with a problem, but I had hoped that you would find yourself comfortable enough with me to do the same, if there was ever the need"

Chapuys, taken aback by the princess's direct approach, turned again towards the fire, a denial on his lips before he could even realize it.

"I will certainly not force a confession out of you, Excellency, but I will ask you not to lie to me"

Lady's Mary's tone was at once reproachful and tender, understanding as it was chiding. A silence fell over the room and Eustace felt torn between the need to unburden himself and his knowledge that it was not his place to ask for comfort from the princess of England.

"You must understand, my Lady, that it is not my place to come to you with my problems"

"Yet it is your duty to hear mine? To comfort me? To wash the blood from my hands and the tears from my eyes when no one else would?" her voice sounded tremulous, and Chapuys hated himself for reminding her in any way to the death of her mother and her subsequent breakdown "I am sorry if I am making you uncomfortable with the mention of the night in the chapel, Excellency, but I could not let this meeting past without thanking you. You often go above and beyond your duty to your Master my cousin in order to visit me and keep me amused, and I've never even acknowledged you kindness, although I've always known you take upon yourself much more than your position demands from you, especially where it concerned my mother and me"

When Esutace chanced a look at her he saw she was staring at the fire as he had been a moment ago, struggling for the right words. After so much time alone, the princess seemed to have a problem connecting on a more personal level with another human being, and he was not making it any easier for her. Shame quickly overtook him.

"There is no need for gratitude, my Lady, I am happy to have been of assistance to you in any way" he took a deep breath and decided, for once, to allow himself a moment of weakness, knowing it would make the princess happy "To tell you the truth, my Lady, I find myself full of doubts. My position demands of me difficult choices, and lately I have made decisions that have gone against what my Catholic upbringing has ingrained in me. What makes me a good diplomat, seldom makes me a good Christian, I'm afraid"

"And you are questioning whether it is worth it to make such a sacrifice" she finished for him "To lose yourself in order to succeed in your endeavours"

"I've seen people, noble people, people I admire, hold onto their morals and their convictions against all odds. I've seen them untainted by courtly politics, able to keep clean hands and a clean conscience. And though I've always known that in order to do my job I could never be like that, I have found myself, as of late, envying them"

"I confess I remember little about life at court. I remember the kind Thomas More, who always used to complement me on my Latin, and Cardinal Wolsey, who used to look at everything and everyone with calculating eyes. I always marveled at the fact they were friends, yet as I grew up I came to realize they complemented each other in a strange way. Thomas More could afford to be so kind, and so moralistic, because Wolsey wasn't. He was a practical man, who sometimes had goodness in his mind, but was not averse to using questionable means to attain his goals. I believe in the end he lost sight of the goodness and it was his undoing. I think Sir Thomas saw that, for I caught him more than once gazing sadly at Cardinal Wolsey, as if looking for someone lost to him"

She paused and smiled sadly, lost in memories of a time gone by, where she had been the pearl of his father's eye and the centre of her mother's world.

"I know it is a bit forward of me to say so, but I believe I know you enough, Excellency, to be sure you will always strive for goodness, not your own, but that of those you admire or hold dear to you. You may dirty your hands from time to time, or struggle against your conscience but you will do it so other don't have to, without looking for rewards or acknowledgement. I find that to be very commendable"

"You are a being of extraordinary compassion and goodness, Lady Mary" this time Eustace smile was genuine, and it brought a peace to his face that erased the furrowed brow that had become a constant in his expression "I believe one day you shall be rewarded with great happiness for it"

"I must confess I sometimes doubt the existence of happiness, Excellency. It seems to me, at times, like some sort of childhood imaginary wonder, a sort of make believe I am now too old for" she paused, deep in thought "I know it is not very Christian of me to say so, but I cannot help the doubts that plague me from time to time. As you see, we all have our moments of weakness"

Tentatively the Ambassador brushed a hand against the princess's folded ones, a brief touch that served mostly to catch her attention.

"You will have the happiness you deserve one day, my Lady. I may doubt many things, but I've never doubted that God, in his infinite wisdom and love, would one day repay you for all your sufferings and your good heart. If not, then I do not know what to believe in anymore"

The princess smiled at him in a way that lit up her whole face, gratitude pouring out of her. Afterwards, seeing him rather drained, she moved to a more neutral topic, and they exchanged pleasantries for a while over dinner before he remarked upon the lateness of the hour and took his leave.

As he rode back to London, he felt somewhat invigorated, like he had felt often after visiting Queen Katherine during the earlier times of her banishment from court before she had gotten terribly sick and had always showered him with words of kindness and encouragement, a source of strength even amidst her wretched situation.

He knew he was getting too attached. He was unused to such feelings of fierce protectiveness towards another person. He had never entertained thoughts of marriage or of a family. He had never particularly liked children or animals, and there were even times when he could barely stand the people that surrounded him. His relationships were all mostly intellectual, his closest friends all men of education, wit and learning, though some warmer and more affectionate than others. Yet in the span of a few months two women, two amazing women, had managed to crawl under his skin and make him care. Catherine of Aragon had been the greatest Queen in Christendom, and her daughter Mary had the potential to outshine her. It was that potential he wished to guard, to treasure and nurture in any way he could.

For her, he thought, he would become like Cromwell, if it came to that. For her and for his Master, the two people that gave him hope in the survival and flourishing of the true Faith in Europe and beyond. He'd be the man in the mirror, he'd walk a fine line between righteousness and sin and never look back, never regret. He'd never be a Thomas More, he realized with a twinge of envy. He played the game of politics, he compromised his morals and his religious views for causes he believed in. Though he had been taught that nothing good could ever come from bad means, his experience had showed him otherwise. If it all came to that, so be it. He had come to realize the price was well worth it.

He had also realized he'd better make peace with Fleming before Rafael worried himself to death.


	7. Pieces of Silver, Pieces of Gold

**AN: Damn, this idea (like all, I know) popped into my head thanks to my study of the monetary system of Castilla and Aragon (college totally pays off again!). I had the idea for the "pieces of silver" part of the fic, but the piece of gold was the touch that eluded me for SO long till someone (Hi, Dani!) finally told me in no uncertain terms to sit and write. I told you I am good with deadlines, girl.**

**This chappie goes out to all of you who review and do not hate me when I take forever to update (and to those who do too). I even promise to update too next week, how's about that?**

**I hope you enjoy, and I apologize if there is any dreaded OOCness. This is all Mary's POV on the end of Season 2 and the beginning of Season 3, I may insert Chapuy's POV on the next chapter.**

**Also, thanks to Tory Tigress who pointed out an error in the previous chapter that I will correct today or tomorrow. It's nice to see people will help me when I drop the ball, especially since she was so nice and polite about it.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Mary Tudor felt foolish, foolish and naïve and once again unprepared for the world had been born in. But out of all the feelings that stifled her the one that stuck out the most was shame, solid and stinging and sharp, like a blade imbedded on her abdomen, twisting with every breath she took, reminding her of her unworthiness. She had thought she was a bit more courageous than that. Even in all her modesty, she had begun to feel a certain sense of pride, when she had thought the darkest days of her young years were behind her.

On top of the shame she felt for her recent actions and choices, she was further mortified of having first, in a cowardly act, directed her anger towards the Imperial Ambassador, who had done little more than unwittingly play a part in all the recent events that had led Mary to her current state of self-deprecation. Ironically enough, and Mary realized the deeply undertones of irony in her current predicament, she could not help but wish for his Excellency to talk things over with him. It was always the diplomat that helped her untangle her confused thoughts and discern her mistakes and discover how to put them to rights. She had come to rely on him as she had with no one save for her beloved mother, and only now realized in what a precarious position she had put herself in, getting accustomed to relying on another to make up her own mind.

Several attempts at a letter lay all around her, strewn across the floor of her study all around her, mocking her with their crossed out sentences and half-formed greetings. Her fingers were stained with ink, as she had been still sobbing when she had attempted to compose a missive to be delivered to London, to the only person she ever wrote to. Directing her gaze to the fire, her mind wondered back to a time, not so far behind, before all her many mistakes had been made, when she had thought that all of her struggles and all of her hope had finally been rewarded with the promise of the end of her hardships.

* * *

It wasn't unusual for her prayers to be pleasantly interrupted by the quiet footsteps of the Imperial Ambassador, easily recognized by their unevenness, product of his on-again, off-again gout. Hardly able to concentrate on her religious duties anymore, the Lady Mary muttered a few closing prayers in Latin and swiftly rose to her feet, turning to offer Eustace Chapuys her hand, which he took with the gentlemanly that characterized him and softly kissed, lingering beyond the formal gesture to squeeze her hand in a more friendly greeting, smiling. There was an acute tension in the room, which lasted till the princess dared asked the loaded question:

"Is it done?" her contempt, which made her usually soft, placid voice more forceful and more regal, resonated in the quiet chapel "Is the harlot dead?"

The friendly smile of the Ambassador turned into a smirk, one she knew all too well. It was the unapologetic half-grin the diplomat showed when he talked about conquered enemies, when he could relate to her the details of the fall of one of the many people in Court who did not care much for him. It came from the side of the lawman who was not very Christian, who could not be demure or humble in the face of an adversary's disgrace. Though she had never told him, a part of her enjoyed the more devious side of the diplomat more than her Christian nature would allow her to admit, even to herself.

"I don't know" his accent gave a musical quality to the words "But certainly she will be dead, before too long"

Relief swept through her like a tidal wave and she exhaled deeply, crossing herself.

"The Lord is good" she looked at him straight in the eye, resolute to know as much as possible about the trial and such "Tell me, why is she really to die?"

As they exited the church, silent Ladies-in-Waiting in tow, he related to her the rumours about her sister Elizabeth's true parentage. Though she remembered little of the child, who she had seldom been allowed to see when in Hatfield, she harboured great doubts about her not being her father's daughter. There was just too much Tudor in the little girl, from the red hair to the wide forehead. She, on the other hand, resembled her mother the most. When she heard about the Queen's many lovers, however, she could not hold her doubts and questions.

"But..." her eyes were wide, uncertain "How many lovers was she supposed to have?"

"According to Mr. Cromwell, over a hundred men" her soft gasp was drowned by his next words "Including her brother, Rochford"

Eyes wider even than before, she crossed herself again. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a funny expression in the Ambassador's face. It was both gently amused at her naiveté and tender. She imagined herself to be different from the more lively and worldly ladies of the Court, but never before had she thought that pleased him as much as it was evident in his face. Actually, she thought her ignorance on some subjects to be a disadvantage in their friendship, for she had imagined it made her seem more like a child in the eyes of Chapuys.

When he immediately changed the subject, she half-smiled at him, letting him know she knew what he was doing.

"But I am told she also blames me for what has befallen her, and holds me accountable for her doom" while Mary was walking a bit ahead of the Ambassador due to the narrowness of some of the corridors, she did not need to turn to see his face to catch the glimpse of smug pride she knew she would find there, since she could hear it clearly in his voice. Strangely enough, she also felt the littlest bit proud of him for having gotten to her "stepmother" as he had.

"Naturally I am flattered by the compliment" she had by then turned toward him, catching his wide smile, the unapologetic glint in his eyes, the exuberance in his stance "Since she would have thrown me to the dogs if she could"

Not wanting, for once, to contemplate the truth of his words, which exposed in just how much danger he had truly been when the harlot had enjoyed the favour of the King, she enquired about this "other woman" in his father's life.

"I have been told in confidence that she is of our faith" strangely enough when the Ambassador referred to the true religion as 'out faith' she felt a strange flutter of her heart, a warmth in her chest. She had also grown accustomed to thinking about Catholicism as 'their faith' "and that the King loves her and means to marry her"

His voice was gentle, warm, trying to make her see this new woman in his father's life as the opposite of the Boleyn Witch, as a force of good and a herald of a new, brighter phase of her life, conveying how this Jane Seymour meant to restore her to the succession.

It was with a grim sort of satisfaction that she confirmed, afterwards, that Elizabeth was now a bastard. While the Ambassador proclaimed it with a sort of glee she could hardly begrudge him, she felt both contentment and pity. As much as she was glad the Boleyn blood was well and truly defeated, she knew the child to be an innocent bystander, another victim of her mother. She had heard of the hard times to be had at Hatfield House, and though she felt vindicated, especially when she thought about Lady Ashley or sometimes even Lady Bryan, she could not help but feel a connection with Elizabeth and wish her to be spared the pain she had felt when she had been young and had realized her father had practically abandoned her to her luck. Elizabeth had it easier, she was after all young enough not to understand many of the painful truths of her new position and she had no younger sibling to serve and no vindictive new stepmother to mock and humiliate her. Still, from princess to bastard was a long way to fall, she knew that.

As she expected, he could not stay for dinner or even tea, as he usually did. She smiled at him as he took her hand to kiss, holding onto his hand as she thanked him for rushing to Hunsford to give her the good news.

"I could not restrain myself, my Lady" he smiled, unaware his hand was still engulfing hers and that his thumb was gently caressing the inside of her wrist. He was energetic, lively, like his skin could barely contain him "I have been waiting to bring you news such as these a long time. I think I abused my poor horse like I have never before, I will probably feed him a few guilty apples once I am back in London"

Seeing him so boyish and carefree made her sadder than usual to have him gone, though she understood he needed to be in London. She gently extracted her hand from his and, with a smile and a nod, they parted.

* * *

Mary smiled from beneath her tears, the memory naturally bringing a happy feeling inside her. She had never seen the Ambassador look so charmingly boyish, so young and careless. While she paused in her musings to remove the thin diadem from her head, which was pounding from all her crying, she caught sight of the gold and black French hood that had once belonged to her mother and that she had used only once, that awful day when Sir Francis Bryan had come to threaten her in the name of her father so she would sign the Oath. The mere thought of such a document, however, sparked another much different memory, the very one which had caused her so much pain and misery.

* * *

She was thankful she was sitting down, for she knew that her legs had lost all of their strength. She stared blankly at the document laid out in front of her and then turned her wide, incomprehensive eyes towards the contrite face of the Imperial Ambassador. He would not meet her eyes for the first time in their acquaintance and it unsettled her more than anything else.

"Lady Mary... I must tell you in all honesty that... that the Emperor is no longer inclined to interfere any further in this matter" he tried to justify his Master to her and, she thought bitterly, maybe to himself as well "After all you are not his subject and... and since he is seeking a new alliance with the King he would in truth be most reluctant to offend him in any way"

She could barely hear him over the rushing sound of blood in her ears. Her breath started coming short, her eyes watering with the realization that she had been forsaken by everyone. She voiced it aloud, as a question, and hated herself for not managing to contain the quivering of her voice.

He would not answer her, lowering his eyes. Trying to make a last stand she asked what would become of her if she did not sign the oath. She knew, of course, even if she could not voice it aloud. As calmly as he could he answered her, stressing the reality of the situation as clear as he could. He was making sure she faced the reality of the situation, making sure she would sign. Somehow it angered her.

She could not contain the tears at that point, but more that fear or death or the idea of being abandoned it was shame that made her weep, the shame of knowing that she had neither the courage nor the strength to refuse the King's orders without some form of support.

'I have failed my mother' she thought.

"Very well" she finally muttered aloud, quickly grabbing a quill as the incredulous Ambassador sputtered something about her wanting to read the document first.

"No" she quickly put a stop to his protests, and her anger towards him grew. He knew she had to sign the Oath, so why insist upon her reading it? "Only I ask if you could procure Papal absolution for what I have done"

She wanted to hurt him, to show him just how much this was destroying her inside, to see how much grief and pain he had brought her. The quill made awful scratching noises as she signed her full name, the sound resonating inside her ears. She dropped the quill as soon as the deed was done.

"So long as I live, I will never forgive myself"

'Or my father' she thought bitterly, her hands shaking 'Or my cousin Charles... Or you, Excellency'.

Anxious to be alone, ashamed to have had anyone see her betray her mother so, she turned towards the diplomat, whose eyes had returned to the wood of her table.

"You job here is done, Excellency" her voice was hoarse, and she could hardly recognize it as hers "I suppose you are anxious to depart this place for the last time. I'm sure my cousin the Emperor will be glad that you will not have to waste your time in silly trips to Hertfordshire any longer"

Eustace Chapuys lifted his face so quickly she could practically hear his neck snap in protest. His eyes, usually so guarded, so neutral, were openly displaying his confusion.

"My Lady, I fear I do not follow..."

"The Emperor can no longer afford to concern himself with me, as you have pointed out, though much more diplomatically, of course" the mockery in her voice was almost cathartic to her, specially as she saw how it affected the man next to her "Therefore I deduced you would no longer be wasting your time humouring a naive little girl leaving in the countryside"

He looked as if she had struck him physically, half understanding her anger and half insulted by her words.

"But, my Lady, you must have realized I have not come to Hunsdon as often as I have merely to pay court to the cousin of my master. I thought... That is to say, we..." he seemed to struggle between what he wanted to say and what he considered proper "Without wanting to be presumptuous, I was of the idea that you were aware that my visits here have not been solely as the Imperial Ambassador under the order of Charles V" he paused, and his rising anger suddenly died out, replaced by a sad understanding "I see that I was wrong. Please forgive me for my crass error in judgement. I see I have forgotten my place"

He stood up, slowly and almost reluctantly. His eyes bore into her, silently asking her to meet his gaze, but now it was she who refused to do so. Her demeanour was cold, closed-off and uninviting and it took but a minute for him to take the hint.

"I am sorry to have had the misfortune of causing you pain, Princess" the hear him use her true title threatened to produce a new onslaught of tears, so she took a deep breath to clear her head "I will bother you no longer"

He bowed, deeply, making no attempt to reach for her hand. Seconds later, he was gone, and Mary could finally let go of her self control and fall back on her chair, and burst into tears, asking forgiveness of her mother and God.

* * *

Beside the French hood that had sparked the latest memory was another object that Mary could not tolerate. It was a purse containing two hundred crowns, a mere part of her father's 'generous gesture'. She forced herself not to relieve that particular moment, feeling the sting of his insult even now. She remembered enough of her childhood conversations with her father to know he had despised her grandfather's love of money. Henry VII was known for his austerity, his dislike for outrageous spending and unnecessary opulence. He had gifted his son with a financially sound crown, yet his gift had not been appreciated at all by his son. Henry VIII had made it his goal in life to spend where his father had saved, to gift and be generous with his purse as his father had not been with his. Had her grandfather gifted her a thousand crowns she would have known it had been a gift from love. The money, coming from her father, meant little next to nothing. It was a way to buy the filial love he had lost when he had let the Boleyns make an orphan and a servant of of his daughter.

'It's your twenty pieces of silver, Mary' a snide voice whispered inside her head 'Take them, enjoy them. You have earned them'.

For betraying her mother, and her faith, and trading the safety of her soul for that of her body. She eyed the purse with loathing, for what it represented, for what it reminded her of...

A mother she had betrayed.

A God she had forsaken.

A King who had been willing to send her to the executioner.

A father who had thought to buy back her affections.

A friend she had abused simply because she had had no one else to take her anger out on.

A friend she was now not so sure had really been her friend. In the eyes of the Ambassador she felt now more like a tedious obligation, one of his many tiresome duties. She may have lashed out at him, but no doubt he now felt lighter, rid as he was of the obligation to entertain his Master's cousin.

She stood up marching towards her desk to remove the two hundred crowns from her sight and, as she did so she spotted another purse, smaller and foreign to her. There was a letter beside it, addressed to her in the neat scrawl of the Ambassador. She remembered with a jolt that Molly, a timid little maid who usually escorted her guests in and out of her house, had left it there upon her request. She had said that when she had been seeing the Imperial Envoy out he had suddenly stopped and removed from the depths of his coat the little bag, but being reluctant to bother the Mistress of Hunsdon he had bid her bring him something to write. He had left her the purse and the note, which she had taken straight to her mistress once she thought it was safe to approach her. Lady Mary had wanted nothing to do with the package, so the maid had set it down upon her desk and quickly curried off.

She had, in all honesty, forgotten about it. She thought about dumping it next to the sack of crowns, but could not bring herself to do so. With gentle fingers she opened it, reaching inside till her fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. Drawing it put she found herself holding a sort of gold medallion, the size of a doubloon swaying from a delicate gold chain, of such fine design that left little doubt as to its superb craftsmanship.

Approaching the roaring fire she turned the medallion in her hands, noticing that it was, indeed, a coin. On one side she saw a coat of arms, which she had seen before countless of times. It was the coat of arms of Isabel of Castille. Turning it around she found two profiles facing each other, one of a man and the other of a woman. The detail was exquisite, even in the dim light of the dying fire, so Mary could clearly see herself in the carved features of the people she recognized instantly as her grandparents, Isabel of Castile and Fernando of Aragon. It was the first time she had ever laid eyes on them.

Tears came once again to her eyes, this time welcome. She tore open the letter she had found next to the purse and greedily drank in its contents. The Ambassador explained in a few words that, recollecting how she had once mentioned she had seen portraits of her paternal grandfather but her mother had never had the chance to show her the few miniatures there existed of her maternal grandmother and grandfather, he had searched his study till he had found an "Excelente de Granada", the name given in Castile the Castilian doubloon, coined by the Catholic Monarchs when they had reformed the monetary system of the peninsula, chaotic till then. He had then managed to find a jeweller who would not raise questions or be indiscreet, and had paid him to fashion the coin into a necklace.

'_I understand, my Lady, that this hardly makes up for what you were deprived from, but I thought this small token of Spain would remind you of the great line of Kings and Queens you descend from, and the family whose love you never knew'_

His words thrilled her to the core. This was not the gesture of someone who saw her as a burden. He had been truthful with her that day, he had truly believed them to be friends. It was she who had disabused him of that notion, all because her own insecurities and doubts.

Damn her pride, she thought, to Hell with her self-importance. Looping the necklace about her neck, the long chain making it easy to conceal the coin under her bodice, she grabbed a quill as started another letter to the Imperial Ambassador, and for the first time in days the words flowed uninhibitedly, without doubt or hesitation.

By the time she at last retired to bed the pieces of silver which had so angered her before lay forgotten inside a drawer of her desk. Feeling the round shape of the doubloon press against her bare skin beneath her nightgown, she soon found the sleep that had so eluded her before.

* * *

**Liked it? Hated it? Missed Rafael and Fleming? Let me know in a review!**


	8. Green

Eustace Chapuys had always found pride in the notion that he was a man of temperate emotions. Many a courtier had despaired over the fact that little could be done to elicit an emotional response from him, and it made him a magnificent diplomat. There was no anger he could not counter with icy indifference, no passionate plea he could not carefully and coolly contemplate and analyze. He was committed to his causes, no one ever doubted that, committed like none other could. His loyalty knew no bounds, and well as his faith, but everything else he had always done in moderation. He did not get attached beyond what his senses deemed safe. Even his ire was cold, and lay slumbering inside him till the opportune moment for revenge presented itself. Yet, as his unsteady hand refilled his goblet with Madeira, the very expensive, almost-impossible-to-find Portuguese wine he had hoped would last him a lifetime and not just one drunken afternoon, he acknowledged, with the bitter feeling of being right when one wishes to be wrong, that he had slipped and he was now paying the consequences.

He took a hearty swing of his goblet to drown out the memory that haunted him. He blamed her eyes, which had never been as expressive as the last time he had seen her, full of fear, of betrayal and hurt.

"What did you expect, you little girl?" he snorted, trying to prop his back against the side of his bed "For Charles V to be your cousin first and the Emperor second?"

The naiveté of the Princess, which he had once adored, now sickened him. The look of incomprehension in her eyes as he had related to her how her cousin was willing to overlook what the King had done to his aunt in order to form an alliance with him against France grated at him, fueled his anger against her. Why was he paying the price for her lack of political savvy? Any fool could have seen this coming. As to the Holy Father, that was a betrayal of another kind. As much as he loathed Reformists, he was not blind to the many flaws of the Church as a human institution. He knew and accepted as inevitable that the Holy Roman Church was a political entity, and the Pope nothing more than an ecclesiastical prince, sometimes more of a political figure than a Keeper of the Faith.

It took him a while for his alcohol-soaked brain to process the fact that he was irrevocably out of Madeira. It took him longer still to locate his port. He would have called Fleming, but the valet had retired early, after he realized that all there was in the ambassador's agenda for the day were bottles of alcohol and several unfortunate meetings with the floor. His distaste had been clearly etched in his face, and he had taken the precaution of pulling Raphael along with him, knowing that the Spaniard would otherwise stay with the Ambassador and, when things deteriorated as they were bound to do, he would come pounding on his door for help. And with his sad, wide eyes, he would certainly get it.

The port was nowhere near as fine as the Madeira had been, but alcohol was alcohol and he was in no position to be picky, especially about something he was now quite sure he would be throwing up in the near future.

Unfortunately with the new drink came a sudden shift in emotions, and anger was replaced by guilt and self-loathing. At first, it begun with the acknowledgement that the Princess Mary was really not the only reason he was drinking himself stupid. She had been merely the unwitting trigger, the last straw that had broken the camel's back. He had been growing, over the course of his stay in England, increasingly dissatisfied with his job, with the state of European politics, with his intellectual pursuits (owing to the fact that most of his intellectual friends had been, ironically, pursued in one fashion or the other, from Erasmus to Agrippa, not to mention poor Sir Thomas) and with his faith. A Catholic through and through, it made him not blind to the increasing shortcomings of the Church or the continued advancement of Protestantism in all its revolting forms.

He could not remember being this moody in forever. He had felt this way countless times since arriving in England (always in private, of course, so as to avoid giving his enemies any ammunition against him) and it bothered him to no end. And, apparently, Flemming too.

"Though I do not approve of this… brilliant idea, Excellency" he had said in that annoyingly self-righteous way he had about him "I hope that getting good and tanked will have some cathartic effect and, therefore, mean the end of all the sleepless nights, the foul mood, the constant sickness and all other problems I would never had associated with a seasoned diplomat such as yourself"

By the time Eustace had recovered from hearing his ever-so-prim valet say the word "tanked" it was too late to berate his servant for speaking too candidly to his Master, for he was gone. Yet he knew, no matter how incredibly out of line Flemming had been, that his words were true. He had been avoiding the issue of his declining peace of mind for a long time now. He had refused to deal with the impact of the death of the ever-gracious Queen Katherine or the execution of the saintly Thomas More.

He had used work as a deflecting technique, telling himself he had no time to slow down, no time to ponder and come to peace with everything. His long list of enemies served as a handy cover, a ready excuse to avoid dwelling on unpleasant matters. And now he had used his finest wine, and his so-so port. He glanced thoughtfully at his aguardiente, a gift from the Emperor himself when he had entered his service, and silently thanked the Lord it was stored in the highest shelf of his cabinet that it would be impossible for him to reach it. That stuff was potent enough when stone cold sober, he shuddered to think what it would do to him in his present state.

He must have nodded off by the foot of his bed, because when he opened his eyes again the room was dark, save for the few candles scattered around his study, almost extinguished, the wax having melted onto the polished wood of the furniture in a way that would drive Flemming mad come morning.

His treacherous thoughts jumped from candle to wax, from wax to seal, from seal to oath, and from oath to Mary. He had, as of late, taken the habit of referring to the princess in his mind by her given name only, when he was distracted or tired (or completely drunk, it seemed). He had tried to get rid of the annoying habit, for he felt he ran the risk of accidentally slipping in front of the wrong person (practically anyone in England) if he got distracted enough. Still, the name, sans the title that should always precede it, broke into the forefront of his thoughts.

He knew he had done nothing wrong, at least from a certain point of view. He had carried out his master's orders, as she knew he had to, and had managed as well to instil in her the importance of keeping her head and neck firmly attached, just like he preferred them to be. No one could, in good conscience, demand more of him. It was true he had achieved little for her over the years, but it had certainly not been for lack of trying. He had been prepared to give his life in service to the sainted Katherine of Aragon. He had incurred in the wrath of Henry VIII (the ever-voluble) in order to secure permission to visit both mother and daughter. He had stood quietly by as friends and good people were persecuted, because he needed to fight for a bigger cause.

Of course, not even drunk could he fool himself. He knew Mary had done as much for him as he had for her, not only with her kind words, her silent understanding of his moods and troubles and her ability to lift his mood. The princess had done him further good while being totally unaware of it. She had become, especially after her mother had passed away, the good end that he believed would justify his… questionable means. She was the best of him.

The port was not settling in his stomach as well as the Madeira had (it was now officially a bad purchase that should be replaced next time by a better sherry or even a passable Malbec). Feeling a bit like he was back in Turin disrupting the peace with his fellow students (he recalled a particularly embarrassing anecdote that involved him reciting parts of Titus Livius's _Ab Urbe Condita_ at the top of his lungs before a disgruntled neighbour doused him with cold water) he struggled to reach the table in order to blow the only candle in the room. Shrouded in darkness he sighed deeply.

"Enough" he sentenced, acutely conscious of the fact that the anecdote he had casually remembered had been Mary's favourite. How his memory betrayed him "Enough of this moping, of this black mood..."

Feeling the right to be selfish one last time before returning to duty and sanity the Ambassador picked up an unopened letter he had discarded earlier when he had had the brilliant idea to drink himself into a stupor and, with clumsy but determined fingers, tore it into tiny little pieces, till not even the princesses' looping signature was intelligible.

"Enough, I say"

* * *

It had taken three whole days for the headache to vanish and a week for Flemming to stop looking smug. By the time the Ambassador had recovered he found he had missed very little. Used to all the intrigues and plots stirred up by the Boleyns at Court Hampton Palace seemed, nowadays, blessedly uneventful. Glancing at a trio of men dressed in sober black and gold (Cromwell, Bryan and Seymour) he wagered that the calm would not last long. And, as much as it shamed him to admit it, the part of him that was more diplomat than man of God relished the idea of future diplomatic war games.

The king seemed to be in a good mood, despite the rising trouble in the North, and he recognized the hand of a woman behind this. Indeed Jane Seymour was at his side, radiant in a serene, understated way. There was not a trace of enmity about her. Everyone who approached her was received with a kind smile and a moment of undivided attention. She was the perfect hostess, welcoming where her predecessor had been repelling, amiable where the Boleyn Bitch had been bitter and haughty...

There was really no comparison, and not just about temperament. As much as it irked the Ambassador to acknowledge it Anne Boleyn had been a very educated woman, and with a head for politics, even if she had indeed possessed a bit too much ambition for her own good. In contrast Queen Jane, as far as he had been able to gather, knew little about languages, mathematics, literature and all those other subjects most women were deemed unfit to study, unlike both the Boleyn Witch and Queen Katherine.

Queen Jane embroidered, he had been told. It was one of her favourite hobbies, and it seemed she excelled at it. All domestic arts she mastered. She also danced and played the lute a little, making her a sort of ideal woman, one whose head did not turn to matters of state, just as the king wished. Katherine had had a bit of domesticity in her. The same woman who had ridden pregnant into a battlefield had also sewn a great number of shirts for her husband a great deal of clothes for little Mary. Anne had lacked the inclination, though he did not know if she had also lacked the knowledge.

But this Queen, he knew, was meant to one day be a mother, a pacifist, a much-needed injection of serenity into the Tudor lineage. Her disposition, he hoped, would permit her to one day outlive her spouse, provided she proved fertile enough to bear a son, and as soon as possible. He set aside his conflicting thoughts on that account, one half of him wanting to see her as Queen of England for years to come, the other half resenting the fact that it would mean that she would produce a male heir whose claim would be above that of sainted Katherine's daughter.

He realized with chagrin that he was letting his mind wander away from the here and now, and quickly pulled himself together. His gaze still lingered on the smiling countenance of Queen Jane, and he thought he saw, among the lamb-like innocence and the gentle countenance, a sparkle of a secret in her eyes, in the corner of her smile. He glanced around, trying to locate her ladies-in-waiting, but they were, strangely, nowhere to be found.

There was a definite a feeling of expectancy in the air and reflected in the eyes of her Majesty, as well as a hint of hesitance. However, she turned with a smile to look at the approaching figure in green, flanked by some of her Ladies-in-waiting. It was a woman, young but with a great deal of poise, dressed in a patterned green dress, embroidered with pearls that complimented the heavy pearl choker and crown that served as jewellery. There was but a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, and none in her posture as she walked determinedly into the room, barely glancing at the scores of men and women on the side, whose shocked gasps and excited exclamations reverberated in the room.

Against his deepest wishes, Chapuys dragged his gaze away from the princess to capture the reactions of Edward Seymour, the unpleasant and manner-less Sir Francis and the ever-slippery Cromwell. The look on their faces, he knew, he would treasure till his last day in England. All slack-jawed, obviously surprised and ruffled, they seemed to have forgotten for the moment how to disguise their obvious shock. He carefully concealed his own surprise and obvious glee from his face before turning to watch the scene unfold. He refused to contemplate how deeply it unsettled him that he had not been told of such a development, and had therefore not been able to be of assistance to Lady Mary. He had no doubt in her ability to hold her own but, nevertheless, he could not help but feel uneasy, and what was even worse, unnecessary. He was, like all the others present, a spectator, and not a key player and it did not sit well with him.

She sunk into a deep curtsey, her movements flawless, and her voice steady as she asked her father, a total stranger, for his blessing. For a moment, a terrifying, horrible moment that would live in Esutace's mind forever, there was nothing but silence. At length, however, the King's lips turned upwards into a warm, yet vague, smile.

"My own daughter" he replied, amused it seemed at the daring of his little, meek wife and of his stranged, dainty little daughter. Offering her his hand to rise he took control of the situation, formally introducing her to the Queen. Chapuys could not help but notice how much more at ease Mary seemed with her. It was nothing obvious, just a spark in Mary's eye, a softening of her features, that he knew only he could spot. After all, who else in here knew her as well as he did?

He had little time to observe such things, however, for the false sense of security he had been temporally lulled into was shattered completely by his Majesty's booming voice:

"I remember some of you were desirous that I should put this jewel to death!"

Against the whispers rose from the crowd, frantic. Queen Jane tried to keep her composure but the sudden fear in her eyes was all-too-clear for the Imperial Ambassador, who refrained from reacting at all, knowing that with the mercurial English king everything could change in the blink of an eye. His eyes focused on Mary, whose face finally betrayed an acute sense of loss and signs of confusion. She swayed, her eyes losing focus as her body sank to the floor. The Queen's Ladies in Waiting took a step forward, some noblewomen gasped in shock and the Imperial Ambassador fought with his feet, trying to keep them rooted to the spot. He dubbed his idiotic need to rush to the princess's aid his "white knight reflex" and, as he had done other times, he pushed it to the far corners of his mind, willing it to go away. He settled instead for mentally berating the king with a few chosen words he had learned in the slums of Sevilla, and that he would forever deny ever knowing in the first place. The sudden burst of anger was kept from his face through years of well-developed self-control, and by the time the king caught his daughter firmly in his grip the need to smash the nearest candlestick into his Majesty's thick, English head had vanished... almost.

'Safe' he snarled mentally, while his face, quite at odds with his incendiary thoughts, only showed mild concern 'No one is ever safe with you, least of all her'

He sighed in relief as he finally let her go, delivering her into the safety of the Queen's care. Mary's face regained colour and cheer. His gaze followed both women as they walked around the room. The people present seemed reluctant to approach them at first, yet all eyes were on them. Mary's countenance improved exponentially as they talked. She seemed to be in awe of her Majesty, no doubt of her generosity and her genuine interest in her. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the King whispering with Sir Francis Bryan, and he made a note of it, knowing it could spell trouble.

His eyes turned back to the princess as he moved to remain out of her sight. He gazed at her from a distance, taking in what his surprise had not allowed him to notice. It was the first time he had seen her in anything other than her sober and simple black gowns. The green set off her pale skin perfectly, and it complimented her brown-copper hair, which was arranged in a rather simple manner, in comparison to the other ladies of the court and in stark contrast with the intricacy of the beaded bodice and of her pale choker. While she gave off an aloof yet pleasant vibe he could see the curiosity in her eyes as they took in a whole new world, one she could scarcely recognize, one she did not feel a part off.

As if struck by some poetic fancy Chapuys thought she rather looked like a wood nymph cast out of the forest and into the artificial realm of man. As soon as the thought crossed his mind he banished it, rather embarrassed at having sound like some lovelorn poet.

As it was the usual case he did not follow that particular line of thought all the way through, choosing instead to shift his eyes from the two Royals to the courtiers excitedly whispering around them, and so was able to see Sir Francis coming way before the princess registered him. His white knight reflex begun acting up and he clamped the urge to approach Mary down, knowing she could hold her own. Her face when she finally spotted the one-eyed noble showed only polite interest, though her body language told him of her wariness, as she tensed up in a way he imagined only few would be able to see. They exchanged a few words and his resolution to let the princess handle the scoundrel was almost forgotten when he saw him smirk in a very inappropriate manner. Lady Mary caught onto the fact that something was off and manoeuvred the conversation so as to dismiss the nobleman as soon as possible.

The Ambassador relaxed against a column, content on keeping his vigil from afar from a place where the princess could hardly spot him. With Bryan gone and Cromwell sizing up His Majesty, intent no doubt on finding how he felt about the reunion with his long lost daughter, he felt he could relax. After all, the princess seemed quite safe next to the Queen, and he thought of nothing else that could possibly go wrong.

* * *

Two hours later, the Imperial Ambassador was seething. Mentally he cursed everything and everyone, glaring daggers at whoever was unfortunate enough to glance his way. He knew he had not right to disapprove, not only because the princess hadn't really done anything wrong or even remotely improper, but also because it was not his place. He was her advisor, her ally, not her family.

Idly, he wondered how he had never noticed the amount of single, young noblemen that seemed to populate the English Court.

He finally gave up the pretence of drinking wine and handed his useless goblet to a passing servant. He turned to thank him curtly and then his gaze was back to the princess, and already another young foolish nobleman had managed to worm his way past the Queen and into the personal territory of her stepdaughter.

To her credit Mary, though obviously unused to this constant flood of male attention and more than a bit uncomfortable, masked her wariness well. She smiled politely at the newcomer, letting him eagerly introduce herself while she rolled her eyes when he was not paying attention. She then made what Chapuys was sure were the most inane remarks on the weather ever uttered and proceeded to shot down every new topic the Earl of Whatever-it-was tried to broach, all with a smile that was warm and in total contrast with her glacial stare. Finally the Lord seemed to catch on to the fact that he was not wanted and would not be able to manipulate the conversation in his favour. Bowing as graciously as he could master he walked away. Eustace willed his lips not to curl into a satisfying smirk.

He was almost caught off-guard by a Lord, whose name escaped him at the moment, who had clearly had too much to drink and had seen fit to greet him with a heart clap on the back that almost sent the Ambassador crashing to the floor, his gout-riddled leg in agony. He schooled his features into a mask of politeness, trying to make sense of what the man in front of him was trying to say, his voice too slurred for anyone to make out words. Having grown officially tired of the gathering the Ambassador blessed his extensive knowledge of the building and carefully made his way towards one of the side alcoves, shielded from the main room by thick curtains. It was the alcove with the best pictures, including a rather bloody representation of the battle of Agincourt and the quintessential portrait of a nobleman with his hunting dogs. He leant against what he knew to be a priceless tapestry featuring a rather sad-looking unicorn and sighed loudly, alone and in peace.

"Excellency?"

Had he not recognized the soft voice almost at once he would have snapped at the intruder for ruining his much sought-after solitude. He opened his eyes, seeing first the glint of her pearl choker and then the green of her dress. He had grown to hate it over the course of the evening, longing instead for any of her simpler black frocks, specially the one which buttoned all the way to her neck.

His eyes quickly travelled upwards, eager to see her finally gazing at him for once. It pleased him to see that the cool, polite facade she had worn outside was gone. He could see all of her emotions playing about her features. She was both relieved to see him and hesitant, and he remembered with a jolt that they had not parted in such good terms. He had forgotten it.

"My Lady" he bowed deeply at the waist, unsure as to how to proceed. He could not read her intentions as well as he had been able to do before, and he hated it almost as much as he hated her damn green dress.

She remained silent for a few minutes, her steely blue eyes boring into him. Finally she lowered her head and looked aside, taking a deep breath.

"I see you are still angry at me. You have just cause, of course" her voice was sombre, resigned. The Ambassador did a double-take, stunned.

"I beg your pardon?" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself "I'm afraid I don't understand, my Lady. I am not angry at you, nor have I reason to be"

She let out what was no doubt a rather unladylike snort. Officially the cool, composed woman who had taken the English Court by surprise was gone and in her place was the more familiar Mary, the one he had mistaken for a maid the first time he had seen her and the one who had, in a moment so embarrassing he could not help but blush whenever he thought about it, sang him to sleep.

"I know we haven't seen each other in a long time, Excellency, and I take full blame for it, but please, let us not pretend we do not know each other" she titled her head to a side, the gesture acutely familiar to the Ambassador "Every time I have been able to catch a glimpse of you this evening the anger was plain to see in your features, in your tense stance, in the way you clenched the goblet of wine in your hands. I doubt anyone else noticed, but I did"

And of course she had. She was not 'anyone else', she was Lady Mary, and she knew him. He hadn't intended for her to do so, but it had somehow happened. Absentmindedly he wondered how she had been able to see him without him realizing and it made him strangely proud, because he had been completely unaware that she had even registered that he was in the room at all.

"And just now, when you realized I was in the room, your face grew sombre again. Do you deny this?"

He did deny it, most vehemently. As he stared at her, rather shocked, his mind kept coming up with things he could not voice allow, not here and not to her:

'_I hate the fact that I failed to be there when you needed me the most, I hate that since coming to England I have become a man I abhor, I hate how much respect I have lost for my Master and how I am not able to relax for a second in fear of the constant plotting going on around me at all hours of the day. I hate the snide words noblemen whisper when I pass, and how some seek to destroy me at every turn, specially that rat Paget. But most importantly, and right now I __**hate your green dress**__, and every lust-ridden bloody member of this degenerate court!'_

He had become so riled up, so absorbed in his inner rant, that he had almost missed Lady Mary's next words:

"I suspected you might have been to angry to talk to me when you ignored my apology, but I thought that, perhaps if it was delivered in person, you would consider..."

He cut her off before he could finish.

"Apology, my Lady?" he was stuttering, and he corrected himself before continuing "What apology?"

It was her turned to look confused, but also relieved.

"You mean you did not read my last letter?" she asked, understanding dawning in her features before being replaced by a brilliant smile "I thought that I had muddled things beyond repair, and I worried all this time and... And you never even read the letter!"

He continued to stand there, dumbfounded and unsure as to how to proceed but infinitely pleased that she was smiling so unabashedly. Had any of the English pups outside seen her like this, they would have never allowed her to so easily dismiss them. In spite of what a breach of protocol it was he was eternally glad to be alone with her.

Even if she was wearing that green dress.

"But I do not understand" she continued "I have written to you countless times before and you have always received my letters"

He thought that if he was struck dead by lightning at that very time then God would be doing him a favour. How to explain to the princess that he had burned what was now revealed to be her heart-warming apology while inebriated? He would much rather mistake her for a maid again.

"It may have gotten lost amongst some other papers in my desk, Lady Mary" he offered feebly, ashamed of lying and yet more ashamed of the truth "I am sorry that such a silly mistake has perturbed you"

She took several steps towards him and looked at him through her lashes, sighing.

"I know it was silly of me to worry about your letter while arranging my return to Court, a goal you have worked towards accomplishing for some time now. I tried to focus solely on the task at hand, and the Queen was a great help but..." she would not look at him and he took that as a sign of her own embarrassment "Every now and then I would have a question, or need some advice and I would immediately sit down with the intent to write to you only to, quite suddenly, remember that I no longer enjoyed the privilege of your counsel"

She could see it in his face that he disapproved of her relying so heavily upon him or any other and it amused her to see him try to conceal it while struggling to find the words to chastise her without actually chastising her. She shook her head and glanced with a hint of trepidation towards the curtains that separated them from the main hall, full to the brim with curious noblemen.

"I would repeat all that I said in the letter, Excellency, but I'm afraid I wrote far too much and I have little time left before one of her Majesty's Ladies-In-Waiting comes to fetch me. What was my intent to express to you are my sincerest apologies. I was hurt and scared and I lashed out at you because you were to only one there to lash out at. It is neither an excuse nor a justification, I have none of those. I simply wished to convey that I do not deserve a friend as loyal as you have been all this time but if you'll find it in your heart to forgive me I promise never to doubt your friendship again"

The Imperial Ambassador could have been knocked over with a feather, so surprised he was. He had known Lady Mary would come to regret her outburst. Though a Tudor in many ways, a possessor of her father's rather mercurial temper, she also had a deep conscience and the integrity of character needed to admit her wrongs to herself and eventually to others. Her remorse had been expected, but not the humility. As he had seen moments ago when she had been introduced, Lady Mary had great pride and it had been tasted throughout her entire life. She had been banished from court, pronounced a bastard, made a maid to her half-sister, and then forgotten in Hunsdon, yet she had never forgotten who she was and who she descended from. She held her pride as her greatest treasure, more so because her mother had died intent on protecting it. She had been force to concede so many times he had thought she wouldn't bring herself to apologize. At best he had expected her to disregard their latest encounter and, at worst, he had feared she would sooner cut him out of her life as much as possible than face him again.

He had read her, and he had been wrong. And, out of all the things that had gone wrong lately, this was by far the best. Still it unsettled him to see her humble herself in front of him. He halted any further apologies by bowing to her again, this time with more warmth and less formality.

"As much as I appreciate and accept the gesture, my Lady, I must confess that it was not necessary. I would have been content pretending our quarrel had never happened"

"I know you would have, Excellency" she admitted quietly, a half-smile on her face "but I thought you deserved better"

All the uneasiness between them seemed to melt into nothing in a way he had thought would not be possible when he had departed Hunsdon last.

"In that case, my Lady, I suggest we say no more on the matter. And before you must depart allow me to welcome you back to Court" he took her hand and kissed it before she reluctantly moved towards the exit, intent on leaving him alone to his peace and quiet. Just before she vanished, however, she turned once again towards him and blushed, ducking her head once more.

"Is something amiss, my Lady?" the Ambassador asked, concerned. Lady Mary quickly shook her head, and looked as if she was trying to come up with the right words to say.

"Well, I know this may sound like a silly question to you, Excellency, but I could think of no other person I could ask. Her Majesty and her Ladies did their best to assure me I still... That is to say, I am not sure..." she sighed in exasperation knowing she was not making much sense. Finally deciding on a more blunt approached she huffed out "Do I look alright, Excellency? I mean, like I fit at Court? Like the daughter of a King? This dress, and this jewels, they are not familiar to me and I cannot help but feel I cannot compare to some of the Ladies I have met today... It feels a bit like playing dress-up"

He would later tell himself her question had caught him by surprise and that was why he spoke without thinking.

"You look gorgeous" his voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat before continuing "No other lady at Court could compare, my Lady"

He caught again a glimpse of Lady Mary's brilliant smile before she ducked out of the room and he was, finally, alone with his thoughts.

'Chapuys, old man, where did that come from?'

He pushed that particular thought out of his mind, the throbbing pain from his leg serving as a good distraction.

* * *

**AN. Mea culpa, people. I have lots of awesome excuses to deliver, but you deserve better. I'm trying to find a job, and then there was a situation in my college and then finals, but we all have a life and it should not get in the way if we trully care about something. Thankfully SSLE was there to bust me on it in the wors possible way (by geing concerned about me, thus guilt-tripping me into writing) which always works. I'll try to not let things get too dire, specially since I love this fic.**

**I am terrified of OOCness, particularly since I haven't seen The Tudors in a long while, but if that happens then rest assured I'll try to correct it by next time. As a personal favour I want ANYONE who has a suggestion for the title of this chapter to tell me since I do not like the one I had to come up with.**

**SSLE, just so you know I kept my deadline, it's 23:42 here, though it must be about 2:42 AM where you are. ****And, on the plus, longest chapter ever!**


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